The Petals that Fall
by Marie Meyers
Summary: It wasn't Mary's title that brought her danger. It was the way she laughed and the way her eyes sparkled under starlight. The softness of her hair and skin, the honey, lavender, vanilla scent that wafted off her skin, and the plump of her lips. She was a queen, and in the world of kingdoms and politics, Royals did not have the luxuries of choice; but they were all moths to a flame.
1. Chapter 1

Title: **The Petals that Fall**

Summary: _It wasn't Mary's title that brought her danger. It was the way she laughed and the way her eyes sparkled under starlight. The softness of her hair and skin, the honey, lavender, vanilla scent that wafted off her skin, and the plump of her lips. She was a queen, and in the world of kingdoms and politics, Royals did not have the luxuries of choice; but they were all moths to a flame._

Category: Reign

Genre: Romance/ Drama

Characters: [Sebastian/Mary], Francis

Date Published: 13-03-11

Disclaimer/Letter from the Author: _Reign's_ characters and original plot do not belong to me. However this fanfiction does. Please ask permission before any reuse of any part of this fandom. If you happen to enjoy it that immensely, please share this story so others may read it, and help make it a success. And review!

©Marie Meyers, 2013

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**The Petals that Fall**

"She comes."

Sebastian looked around at the gossiping court as he walked to stand beside his mother and father.

He saw her first. Her raven strands of hair swaying in the breeze as her eyes eagerly scanned the crowd, the ground, the land; the court. As he put his hands behind his back, he couldn't stop the instant flutter in his stomach, and his sudden intrigue at the fair-faced queen. Queen Mary of Scotland. He would have never expected her to look quite like that. He wasn't sure the word, but there was something.

Sebastian watched as Mary and her friends, the ladies-in-waiting, paused in front of the crowd of the French Court. One of the girls leaned in to Mary and whispered, and Mary's head snapped up, straight into his direction. Sebastian curiously watched Mary shook her head. He wondered what that was about.

"Mary."

Sebastian looked a ways. There was his brother, the legitimate heir and the future king of France, standing off the side of her. Sebastian stared at Francis' face, saw the discomfort there, and silently sent his brother a dosage of courage. He had no doubts about how awkward a predicament Francis must have found himself in. After all, before the whole French Court stood the woman who was meant to be his future queen.

He watched the instant attraction that passed between the two.

"Francis."

It was so obvious, so heavy within the air, that Sebastian felt that he could draw his sword, and cut it.

He watched Francis bow his head slightly. "Welcome back to French Court."

Mary smiled.

Sebastian felt himself starting to frown, stopping himself and setting his lips in a thin line. Again, there was something. But he didn't quite have the word.

§

Mary walked the long corridors of the French Court eagerly. She hadn't been there in so long. With only a few hours before the royal wedding, Mary and her friends had decided to explore the castle; for one always saw things different when older.

The castle _was _different. The once narrowing staircases that seem to just stretch for miles now seemed so short. The walls that once towered over her were now so small. But the wonder was just the same. Every nook. Every corner. If anything, for Mary, it was even more magical; walking up the winding staircases that her and Francis once played on.

She felt her cheeks heat. _Francis_. The years had done him quite well. He grew into his legs-she almost smacked herself: she couldn't _believe_ she had said that! Way to be smooth, Mary-he now stood tall and proud. Of course, he had grown into other things too. Like his eyes. And his voice. And his hair...

As she reached the top of the staircase, she couldn't contain her excitement. The hall she found herself in was the very hall where she and Francis used to sleep when they were children. In fact, she could practically see the door to her childhood bedroom. She placed one hand against the wall, trailing it along the wood of the doors as she found herself lost in memories. In her mind, all her memories were happy, colorful pebbles that seemed to float untop the water; her memories were water lilies, precious, fragile, and commanding. They had a certain beauty of their own, that entrapped Mary in Hope.

As Mary's hand brushed the door of her old room, she gave a smile to nothing in particular then placed her second hand on the door and pushed it open. Francis looked up abruptly, his hunched form freezing as he leaned over the table, one hand clutching some sort of tool. Mary placed a shaking hand on her heart.

"Francis! You startled me."

"Mary..." Francis said slowly, as if he was trying to decide whether he were imagining something, "Mary," he said more stern. "Why...are you up here?"

Mary blinked. "What do you mean, '_why?_' These used to be our old rooms, don't you remember?"

"Of course I do," Francis said. "But they aren't now. So likewise you shouldn't be here. No one comes up here or uses these rooms for anything."

"Except for you."

Francis faltered. "Well. Yes. I. I guess that's right."

Mary barely heard him; her eyes were drawn to the table he hunched over, and the tools in his hands. "What are you doing over there?" she asked, moving away from the door. She stepped into the room and stood beside Francis. "Are those swords?"

"Yes, actually. They are," Francis said slowly.

"Why are they up here?"

"I...I make them." Mary stared at him. A smile slowly made its to her lips.

"But why?" she asked, gently reaching around Francis to feel the cool metal of his weaponry.

"Because I am good at it, and because I want to be a great king."

"You will be a great king, however. There isn't a need for this," Mary motioned.

"I believe every king should have a skill, something that they are good at, and fall back on," Francis said to her.

"Leading is a skill, isn't it? Not a lot of people can lead a nation."

"I don't want a skill that defines me as a king. I want a skill that defines me as a man."

"I can milk a goat."

He paused.

"At least I know that if I ever lose the throne I'll have you to milk goats and my skill as a blacksmith," he muttered with a shake of his head.

Mary took a step back and frowned. She would protect him if there was an uproar; wasn't that going to be her job? "That wouldn't happen, Francis. If we ever had to leave the court, we could just go to Scotland, and rule there. I would look after you."

Francis looked up at her, and Mary got lost in the deepest eyes; she felt she couldn't breathe. There was a look on Francis's face; a look that she had yet to seem him use, that made her heart beat too fast and her knees weak. It wasn't feral. It was more than kind. It was something.

Something like kindness but weighted with something ten times stronger.

And then it was gone. Mary stared at Francis confused as he dropped his gaze and cleared his throat. "Yes, well. We should probably get out of here."

He didn't move. Francis stared at her expectantly.

_He wants me to leave him_, she realized. But she sensed it was more than that. So she nodded.

"Right - I should explore more of the castle elsewhere. It's a nice day to be outside." She smiled at him gently as she made her way to the door.

Closing the door softly behind her, Mary halted for a second, ear by the door frame, listening for...anything.

Then she heard it; an audible and shuddering breath that made hers hitch. She leaned her head against the door, right hand caressing the handle, and closed her eyes. She counted to seven, willing either Francis or herself to fling the door open and take one another into each other's arms. At seven she shook her head clear, and smiled again. Then she stepped away.

§

Francis felt his breath hitch when Mary past him. He held it fast; the scents of honey, vanilla, and lavender swirling all around him and clouding his senses.

He didn't watch her walk away, he merely waited, breath held, for the soft click that signaled she'd gone. Then, as if he had been a man struggling under water, Francis let his breath leave him. Hard. Fast.

She smelled so good. It was a weakness for him. How girls smelled. He loved a girl that smelled tantalizing. Mary smelled like more.

It wasn't as if he had never been with a woman before. He'd been with plenty; a girl's scent wasn't necessarily something that caught him off guard.

But Mary. _Mary._ Oh, Heaven help him. He didn't remember her smelling like that. How could he of not noticed when he greeted her at the castle gates?

He had noticed everything else. Like how her eyes lit up when they met his own. How soft the skin on the back of her hand was when brushed beneath his lips. How silky and soft her hair looked; her soft curves; how she grew into her voice.

Mary was beautiful. Perhaps beyond that if he were being honest. But he had seen beautiful before. There wasn't anything that separated her too much from anyone else; from his current lover. From his past ones.

Then there was that smell. That honey/lavender/vanilla seduction. That natural allure that he was sure she didn't even notice herself. That wasn't the same as any other girl he'd had vie for him.

It dawned on him that perhaps there was more to his fiancé than what he thought. Something...some imprint that she leaves in her wake, that no one could overlook.

Fiancee...the thought was like a the hilt of a sword into his stomach. He could feel the distaste rolling off his tongue. That's right. She and he were supposed to be getting married. Whether he liked it or not. To make an "alliance". A pact with Scotland. Marry Queen Mary of Scots and rule France as king with her as his consort bride. No choice. No discussion. For the sake of a kingdom or two.

Of course, he knew it wasn't just him in the marriage. Mary also had to marry him for her kingdom. But maybe he didn't want to marry without love. He saw how his father and mother were. How estranged their union was and how he favored Sebastian and his mother over any other. He didn't resent his half-brother for that or anything, but he had decided long ago that he wouldn't follow in his father's footsteps. If he were to marry, Francis knew that he wanted it to mean something. He wanted it to be real. For both his people and his heart.

And there was nothing real about an arranged marriage.

And nothing real about he and Mary. So what if she was beautiful, sweet, and smelled good?

_Snap out of it, Francis_, he told himself. He gave himself a firm shake of his head. _Snap out of it_. He combed his hand through his hair and realized he was shaking. She did that. Like she were some sort of witch. Is it possible to be bespelled by some girl who really only just met him? Of course not. How ridiculous. Magic was a bunch of cheap card tricks. It wasn't something he believed in.

He left the old room and slowly descended down the stairs. Her smell was still lingering. Not only in the hall, but in his mind.

As Francis made his way to his quarters, he paused near the hall that led to Mary's. He slowly walked towards it, then stopped, realizing that in just a few more feet he'd be in her hall and right there before her.

It frightened Francis, that although he had just told himself that he and Mary were not meant for one another, he was yearning to go to her. When she had told him that she would take care of him, it pulled at his heart. She would be a loving wife, and queen; she gave people her heart, and they were warmed by it. The power she had in her eyes, that earnestness, almost had him smitten.

But he wanted love. Not its illusion.

Francis clenched his jaw and turned on his heels, leaving to go to his own hall. When he approached his door, he had never felt as much relief as in the moment. Finally. A moment where he could just get away from all the distractions. He opened his door quickly and slipped inside. He didn't turn right away, placing his forehead against the cool wood.

"Francis."

The voice made his heart stop. Instant apprehension gripped him as he felt his muscles tense. He turned around quickly.

"Natalia. Why are you here? You know when we meet."

"I wanted to see you." The dark-haired girl took a few steps towards him.

"What if you were seen?" Francis told her. He rushed to her, and placed his hands on her shoulders. "With the queen here, Natalia..."

"No one saw me. They never see me." She reached a hand up to stroke his cheek. Francis flinched, then took her hand from his face, and held in his own.

"We can't. If we are found out-"

Natalia pressed her lips to his. "Shh, Francis. We won't be. We never will be," she declared, and Francis stared into her eyes, seeing that she meant her promise. Seeing more than he knew he could return. He inhaled quietly, and her smell hit him; roses. She always smelled of roses, and before he loved it. However now, the smell that haunted him was one more herbal, and much sweeter.

"Never, Francis," she repeated, and he nodded. Taking that as a hint, he guessed, Natalia pressed her lips to his again, leaving him one chaste kiss after another, until he felt a need to respond to her grow within him. Francis found himself threading his hands around her waist, and pulling her to him desperately. Whether it was because of her, or because of something-or someone-else, he didn't want to say.

As Natalia's hands tugged his shirt gently from his trousers, there was a knock on his door. Francis began to pull away, but Natalia shook her head, and he halted, still kissing her. When the knock sounded again, he pushed her, albeit gently away from him, and put his finger to his lips. He then walked to the door.

It was Mary, beaming at him.

"Mary."

"Francis! ...May I come in? I have something-"

"What are you doing here?" he snapped at her. "I am busy."

The look she gave him was enough to freeze his heart. But he wouldn't let it. He wouldn't dare. He watched as the smile fell from her face.

"Next time, have yourself announced."

"But Francis, I found you something, for your knives and your swords, and-" she paused. "Why do you have the door cracked like that? Is someone in there with you?" she moved her head to see around him, but Francis simply straightened more against the door so she could not. He watched as she pursed her lips.

"We are to be married. That is not how you should speak to me," she said slowly.

Francis stared hard at her, guilt assaulting him, and a strong desire to apologize, fall at her feet, and beg forgiveness from her. He didn't know why it was there, and he cursed himself. She would not do this to him. She would not make him feel this way.

"You're right, we are to be married," he said angrily to her, "And here's a tip for you, if you are to be the queen: Kings do not answer to their wives." Without waiting to see her expression, lest he kiss it away, he shut the door in her face.

He leaned against it; he felt weakened. When he heard her walk away, he rubbed his hands over his face, balling them into fists. Dammit. Dammit. Damn you, Mary Stuart.

He hadn't meant to sat those things to her. He hadn't meant to hurt her.

He felt more than heard Natalia make her way to him. She tried to wrap her arms around his back. "It's okay," she crooned. "Francis, she is gone now, and it is just you and I again. Like it should be."

Francis looked down at her snuggled against his chest, and for a brief second, he saw Mary in Natalia's eyes. He shut his eyes quickly and shook his head, speaking quietly.

"Get out."

He felt Natalia tense against him. "Don't be silly."

"I'm not. Natalia, you must go."

"I don't understand."

He shook his head again. He reached for her arms, and disentangled himself from her. "You. Need. To. Leave." He stood away from the door, then opened it just enough for her to slip through.

Natalia stared at him. "You told me she would never affect us. You said-"

"Natalia!" Francis yelled. "Get out, or get hauled out. Just go."

Natalia lowered her eyes. She stood there for a moment, but then she stalked past him, and out the door. Francis eagerly closed it.

§

Sebastian trot alongside the woods, staring hard, wishing that he could stare into its depths from his distance, and see every danger that lie inside it, and what those dangers were doing now. He sighed deeply, looking down, and shook his head. He was a son of the French Court. He may have been a bastard, but he still had reason to be strong. He would not let himself be drawn to the forest's darkness.

When he turned to face the castle, he saw a dark-haired girl sitting on a log, alone with her dog. It was Mary Stuart. Francis' fiance, and future queen of France. His future queen.

Of course, Francis, Sebastian knew, had other thoughts and ideas about the marriage. It had nothing to do with age. Being fifteen, marriage was more than probable. It was of age. No, what bothered Francis was whether or not the marriage with Mary would be good for France. Sebastian knew that Francis had a strong love for his country, and his people. It was its interests above his own. Always. Marrying Mary, Francis sometimes told him, might not promise that, or the want to experience what it meant to truly love. Sebastian wondered when Francis would tell Mary how he didn't intend to marry her.

Just then, it occurred to Sebastian that he was watching her. The way she sat on the log in good posture, how her long, dark tresses fell down her back. The way she pet her dog. She was very graceful, Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots. Sebastian almost felt as if he could just stand there and not mind it. Of course, that wasn't proper.

He watched as Mary's dog snapped its head in the direction of the forest. It stuck its tongue out, panting. Then it barked, and ran; and the young queen ran after it.

"No, come back! Sterling! Don't go in there! Sterling!" As Mary's dog ran into the forest, Mary was right behind. And almost a length's way from Sebastian. Of course, he didn't believe she would go in there. The woods were not for the living-or the royal. But it became evident, the closer and closer she got to him, that she didn't plan on halting. Sebastian quickly got off his steed and went after her.

"Don't go in there, Mary. Mary. Mary!" Sebastian reached for her, pulling her to him, and shook her gently. She startled. She hadn't noticed him.

"Young girls; royals-queens-do not leave the castle alone."

"But my dog..."

"It shall return." He searched her eyes. Her wide eyes searched his own, and he was suddenly overcome with just how beautiful a brown they were. How fitting that the queen of Scotland had eyes the color of the hearth. "Do not go into the woods. Do you hear me?"

She gave him a hard stare. "Why not?" she asked slowly. "What's in there?"

He could tell that he had piqued her interest. That wasn't good. The woods were a place best left alone. For anyone. Everyone. What was in those woods could kill any person. Any creature. He set his lips in a grim line.

"What is it? What is in those woods, _besides_ my dog - whom I _would_ have caught, if you hadn't stopped me - ?"

Sebastian couldn't help but be somewhat amused by her curiosity. Mary Stuart had an inquisitive mind, and a bold tongue. He felt a twinge of admiration towards her. "Your dog," he told her, avoiding her questions, "will find its way back. There is food and water-shelter-at the castle; who wouldn't want to stay there?" Good; answer a question with a question. He stared at her face again. He felt a curious smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

"Except for perhaps...you?" He asked her. "You'd rather be at the convent, would you-eating porridge and trudging through mud."

He saw something flicker behind her eyes. She looked up into his own again, a smile beginning to grace her lips. "I happen to like how mud feels under foot."

"Take you back to the nuns; maybe for...misbehaving." He smirked at her. Teased her.

She placed a hand on her hip, and the corner of his eye was drawn to her curves. He eyed them quickly.

"You're cheeky," she told him.

"And you're upset about more than your dog taking a jaunt in the wild." She looked away again, and he added more softly, "What is it." A statement, not a question. Flowing so smoothly through his lips, that it surprised himself. He hoped she wouldn't be taken back. Hoped she wouldn't notice his slip, or the way he had casually found his hands rubbing up and down her arms, her skin obviously soft, even through the sleeves of her dress.

She laughed, but the sound was humorless. "Ask your brother."

He raised his eyebrows. Perhaps Francis had already told her. "Ask him what?"

"...Why he has to be such a moody, arrogant arse," she said quietly, looking up at him tentatively through her lashes. He felt himself grin. She grinned back at him. Despite her being the queen and Francis' fiance, he found himself wanting to flirt with her. Get to know her. Make her smile. She was really quite stunning. Her eyes, lips, and hair. How fair her skin was. Up close, she was even more gorgeous than he had thought when she arrived earlier that day.

"By the way, we are half brothers; just so you know," he replied with a raised brow. "Nothing in common, save our father. But, I will tell Francis of your...discontent."

She smiled wryly at him. "Don't bother." She turned to walk away.

He didn't want her to go just yet. His mind scrambled frantically. Come on, Sebastian, old boy-think. Think, damn it. "And, I will bring back your dog," he blurted, which made her pause.

She turned back to look at him, and for another moment he was graced with looking at the gorgeous lips that looked so plump and soft. He felt his heart stutter within his chest. Giving him one last glance, she turned, and walked back towards the castle, leaving Sebastian alone.

He stared at the wood's lining, heart palpitations slowly regulating, tension working its way through his body, and set his jaw. The dog, Sterling, probably entered the woods because he smelled the blood.

Sebastian looked to the sky. The sun was slowly setting. If he were to enter the woods now, chances are he would not find the dog in time before the Francis' sister's wedding. Damn. He didn't really even want to attend it. But he was somewhat of royal blood. Maybe not a legitimate dauphin, but it was something, and thus he had obligations.

He could wait until after the revelry, and while everyone was too busy dancing, discreetly step out, and return here. He knew it was a much more riskier option, but it was the better one. He didn't wish to not uphold his word to Mary. True, he had never said when he would search for her dog, but knowing that the sooner Sterling was returned to her, the better she would feel, warmed his heart in a way he had never felt before.

He found himself not wanting her to feel alone. He didn't want her to feel saddened that she was away from the convent, or unhappy during her stay at French Court, which may possibly be forever. He wanted her to see the French Court as her home. He wanted her to see she belonged. He wanted Mary to see him.

The thought was like a sudden jolt throughout his body; so that was what his intrigue was? He found it to be highly irrational-after all, she had returned to the court just hours earlier. He couldn't believe that he was smitten so quickly. He was never smitten so quickly.

It was a start though, that much he would admit. Rather than be afraid or ashamed of it, he found himself quite amused. He, Sebastian, was developing feelings for the Queen of Scots, his brother's bride-to-be; what were the odds of such a thing?

§

The wedding was to be expected; the exchange of vows, the chaste promises of eternal love; the share of the goblet. After every wedding comes celebration.

Sebastian stood among the crowd watching the newly wed couple dance. It was the first dance of the revelry, and the dance which signified it. Some watched the dancing couple as they performed ritual; others chattered, and spoke among themselves, drinking wine and dining. Sebastian had no desire for the weak wine or the wedding entrees; instead he watched the dance floor, watched Francis' sister dance with her husband, and wondered if their love was real.

As the wedding dance came to a close, he saw her; Mary, and her ladies-in-waiting, arm in arm, skipping onto the dance floor. No one else had yet to step into its center, and now no one of the French Court did, watching the Scottish Queen dance with her friends without shoes. It wasn't a traditional dance, but one done in village pubs and festivals.

And it never looked so graceful. Sebastian watched, enchanted at the young queen. Normally, one of Mary's status would never act out in such a fashion. But not her. She was different. He had heard the rumors around the court, that it was because she was Scottish and raised in the convent, and perhaps it were true. Yet, Sebastian felt as if it were so much more than that.

Perhaps it was just her. How God had made her. Her spirit so wild, so young, and so free. She was glowing, dancing with her friends as if she had not a care in the world-as if she were not a queen, but merely a girl, and Sebastian found himself wondering if Mary knew that it was not custom or proper for a queen to dance that way. Then he wondered if she would care. She would probably question it, asking dozens of questions, demanding who made it as such, that queens could not be themselves.

Laughter suddenly sounded all around him, and before Sebastian knew it, the women of the French Court too took off their shoes and skipped onto the floor, charmed by the Scottish girls. Sebastian didn't blame them. Perhaps if he were also female he would also have joined in.

Sebastian saw all the dancing girls around him. This was the charm of Mary Stuart, this natural, shining glow that touched everything in her wake. Perhaps that was why he found himself so drawn to her, and the reason why he had done nothing but think of her since their exchange outside the woods, and why the smells of lavender, vanilla, and honey had repeatedly brought him to the kitchen quarters for most of the day.

Mary's black dress, which hugged her curves modestly yet noticeably, and drew a sharp contrast against her skin, rose as a fan around her as she twirled in the center of the floor. He watched as she raised her arms high above her, eyes closed, feeling the charm of the music. Letting herself become succumbed to it. And likewise he watched her, blatantly and not minding, enjoying the show. Enjoying her. She was contagious, that was sure.

Then mid-twirl she looked over in his direction. Sebastian had always wondered if coincidence and fate were real, but he was sure in that moment, as her face turned his way, and her eyes instantly set on his. He didn't look away, nor did he waiver. He stared back at her, determined to let her see all that was there. His amusement, his fascination, and he wondered if she would hear him calling her beautiful if he passed it through his stare. She didn't turn away from his eyes either, and suddenly he couldn't notice much. He knew, of course, that others were around them, but he had trapped her in his gaze, and he was going to do all he could to keep her there.

But when the feathers fell her head snapped up to the ceiling. He watched as her mouth opened in surprise. He watched as a smile elated her face, as she held out her hands, palms upward, to catch the feathers falling. Then she looked in a different direction, and stood there, immobile. Lost. He looked in her direction, and noticed Francis standing there, looking just as lost as she.

Perhaps they were sharing a memory, of a time when they were young. But it didn't matter. His eyes went back to Mary. Watching her. Memorizing her. Sebastian knew he couldn't deny it. He was absolutely enchanted. Even as he watched her take a step towards his brother, only to be roused from her fantasy by one of her friends, who leaned her face towards hers, then grabbed Mary's hand, and hauled her away.

Sebastian watched Mary leave. He wasn't so possessed by his fancy to the point where her attraction to Francis bothered him, but he was glad that she was no longer bespelled by him. When he could no longer see even a linger of Mary's hair in the room, he discreetly started moving from the hall. After all, his main reason for being there had just gone.

§

His horse neighed softly in protest, as Sebastian traveled deeper into the woods. Sword securely in its sheathe on his side, Sebastian searched the woods cautiously. The air in the woods was too chill. The under current of death a chill that may way down his spine. He clacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth quietly in an effort to calm down his steed.

It had been hours since he had entered the woods. In fact, it was almost morning. He hadn't left last night as he had planned because he knew it would be dangerous. So when he had got up that morning he waited until early evening, then left the castle.

He had been riding through the woods for hours. Hours; and Sterling had yet to be found. Sebastian did not like to admit defeat, but perhaps this was a fruitless venture. What if Sterling was already dead? It was in his best interest to turn around and return to the castle, lest he rode farther into the wood's forestry, and stumbled upon the trap of a vagrant.

But that would mean failing Mary. After what Sebastian had seen at the revelry the night before, failing her was something he knew he never wanted to do. He urged his horse forward.

The more restless his horse became, the more Sebastian knew they were getting closer to the woods' darkness. They were almost at the heart of the woods. The heart, filled with sinister things.

There was suddenly a giant tree before him, blocking the center of his path. It's full branches stretched as far as he could see, twisting, winding; like bony fingers beckoning he and his horse into it. To its slaughter.

They were there. The heart of the forest.

Sebastian stared at the flower petals that graced the ground. He didn't want to look too closely at the tree. He didn't want to. He had to do it often when he was a child. He didn't want to do it anymore. There wasn't a much blood on the fallen petals like there was along the tree. He was safe from the nightmares, so long as he didn't stare at the tree.

But he knew that didn't do him any good. He was there for a friend. For someone important. For Mary. He would keep his word. Holding his reins in one hand, and touching the hilt of his sword with the other, Sebastian raised his head. And saw Sterling. Lapping at the blood and the bodies that coated the body of the tree.

It was taboo to walk up to the tree; he'd be left at their mercy. Anything could happen to him, and he had no doubt they were watching him. But he stepped down anyway, with the thin rope he had brought with him and tied around his waist.

Sebastian approached the tree slowly. Never show weakness when in the woods. Never show fear. It fed off of it, and it killed the one who felt it. He willed himself to appear valiant.

"Sterling," he said in a low voice. "Sterling. Come here. Here, boy." When Sterling didn't do so much as lift his head, Sebastian hissed, "_Sterling! Right now!_"

Sterling lifted his head.

"_Come_ boy."

Sterling ran over to him.

Sebastian got on one knee and began to pet him. "Good boy," he crooned. Sterling started licking his face, and although he his mouth had just been in putrid, Sebastian let him. He untied the rope from around his waist, and stealthily tied it around Sterling's neck. He then wiped Sterling's face, in case he had blood along his nose. He would make Sterling drink from the lake once they were back at the castle. Standing, Sebastian pulled Sterling with him, mounted his horse, and trotted back through the woods with Sterling in tow.

He was grateful the woods didn't claim his body too. This time.

§

He slowly led Sterling through the castle halls, trying to be effectively quiet, but somewhat failing as the dog kept periodically licking his lips, still tasting the water on his tongue. When he reached the steps that led to the royal halls, Sebastian somewhat bounced up them, light and quick in his steps, with Sterling following behind.

Mary's room had been the first stop. He planned to knock, gently and quietly, and wait for her to open the door. Then, she once she had, she would have seen her dog in his hands, and she would have smiled a smile just as bright as the ones he had seen at the wedding. Sebastian could not wait for it.

But when he had got to her chambers, he had found them empty. When the guard told him where she was, that was where he went, eager to see her, and speak with her.

He was surprised for a brief moment to see her at the top of the stairs. Again, Sebastian wondered if fate and coincidence were working in his favor, granting him these chance meetings. If that were the case, he silently thanked them. Sterling whined, and he heard Mary gasp.

"Sterling!" she cried. "Oh, you've found him!"

Once he was at the top of the steps, he let the dog go, and watched it run to its master. Mary dropped to her knees and flung her arms around the dog's neck, petting it, obviously happy. He smiled at her gently. But there was something else. Something off about her.

Sebastian watched as she buried her face into the dog's neck and then realized the distinct glitter of tear stains on her cheeks.

"What do I do, Sterling? What do I do?" she pondered quietly, and Sebastian watched her, his own heart filling with pain. She looked up at him then, eyes glossy. "I'm sorry...it's just so hard," she told him, admitted to him, voice heavy with emotion.

"I know," he answered gently. He stated down at her. He wished he could lean forward and wipe away her tears. He wished he could take her hands in his and pull her to him, holding her in his arms. To let her feel his assurance that he would be there for her; that she would be okay.

"It's a lot harder than I thought it would be."

"You are not alone here."

She stared at him, startled. "I have my friends."

Was that a defense? A firm statement made to convince herself or him? Sebastian knew about the attempt on Mary's chasity. How she had seeked counsel with the his father and the queen. Did she feel as of she had to make the statement aloud, to feel as if it were true? He took a silent breath in, for courage, and felt a bashful smile cross his features.

"I was not talking about your friends."

She met his eyes again, and he straightened his posture, making himself feel braver than he felt, admitting such a thing. When it came to Mary, he found himself nervous, enchanted, bold-all at once. It was an elated feeling.

Even more than the emotion that washed over him, was how she couldn't look away from his eyes. He wasn't an idiot. He saw how she looked at him. It was the very same way he looked at her. And he liked how it made him feel. How she made him feel. Be it the second day of her arrival or not.

His eyes flickered up for just a second, and he halted. There was his mother, staring at him. Watching them. He made his face a blank mask, and looked at Mary again.

"I meant, I hope you are well, _Your Grace_." He bowed slightly.

He knew Mary wasn't fooled by his sudden change in attitude towards her. She stood then, regal, and just as respectful as he.

"Thank you, Sebastian." She gave him a stare, and he understood. The fondness, the bond, and silent understanding that was passing between them. "Really."

He gave her a slight nod, and watched as she turned away, and walked down the steps. Watching her go, he wanted to chase after her, and accompany her. He felt so much...want for her. For Mary.

But he stayed where he was, if only for the fact being that his mother was about to speak to him.

When she walked up, he turned to her. "Hello, Mother," Sebastian said.

"Where did you find the dog?" his mother asked him crossly.

"In the woods." Then, "It was drawn to the blood."

She stared hard at him. "How close did you get?" she demanded. Sebastian looked away. He wouldn't tell her that he was so close he could reach out and touch it. Never. No way.

He didn't need to. "Be careful, my brave son," his mother said to him coldly. "Or you will bleed for a girl who will never be yours." He met her glare.

And suddenly he was reminded of his title. Of Mary's. Of the impossibility of it all. He knew he was an illegitimate; no one had to tell him. But he didn't care about that, or the throne, in the least. He was taught from the beginning it would never be his, and that he would never be crowned. He didn't let it bother him.

However now, it did. It bothered him to the point where he could no longer stand beside his mother, hearing her words to him. It bothered him to the point where he wanted to curse her; demand why she had to have been his father's mistress, and made him the bastard who could never have the chance of having what he wanted most right then.

So jaw clenching, he turned away. He walked away from his mother without a word, and down the hall to his chambers. He angrily opened the door and shut it. Sebastian then stalked to his window, where he stared out at the castle grounds with haunted eyes.

He had already knew that, damn it. It wasn't necessary for her to tell him.

* * *

AEN: Remember to review!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer/Letter from the Author: I have been thinking, and I have decided that I want to take this story in a different direction. Although I do think that these first few episodes are a really good reference point. I want to make it as realistic to the series as possible, but I also want to take it in my own direction. So I'm going to try it, and see how it pans out.

I said this would center more on Bash and Mary, but I also think Francis needs to be included, as I don't have a real negative opinion on him yet. So like with the series' love triangles, anything can happen at this point. I hope it is the story that decides its own direction.

This new chapter marks the start of the Mary/Tomas arc. I'm pretty sure, however, that no one really likes him. He is a sneak. And based off of the preview for 1.04, he's a crazy, murderous man who is highly abusive. Hopefully Sebastian and Francis can come to save the day, in both this story and the series.

* * *

§

Murders. Schemes. Deceits. Plots. Weeks of them. Unrelenting. She thought it would never end, until Francis would agree to marry her. But he never would. Mary sighed.

She thought back to when she and Francis had been in the courtyard, when he had accused her of trying to ruin her reputation to get back at him, right after Colin had tried to take her chasity. How he had almost kissed her. How his mouth had been so close. How he had pulled away.

When Simon had challenged their union, Francis had done all he could to meet that challenge, making them pretend to be in love. Though she hated that it had all only been an act, she had delighted in those moments; how he treated her like his love and his queen.

If only it were real. If only it weren't an illusion.

Did she love Francis? He had been her fiance for six years. They were supposed to wed. She had wanted to marry him. That had to have been love, right?

But Francis believed that love was irrelevant for people like them. Maybe he was right. Their world was one of treachery and war. Thus, any union formed by their kind was in form of alliances. So was an alliance a reason for love? Even though they had been growing productively closer, did that mean that they could grow to love one another? Marry for love, and not only for kingdom.

Mary looked out her window at the courtyard. Tomas was there, strolling with the King.

And that was when her mind told her no. No, love wasn't fit in their world. One did not marry for love, but for country. After all, she was now engaged to the future king of Portugal.

She felt a twinge so sharp in her chest, and clutched at her heart. She thought back to the kiss that Francis had given her-that seering, wonderful, first kiss that had left her breathless; the kiss where he told her to go, and never marry for love. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. She was a queen. Queens did not cry over boys.

§

"You look as stunning as ever, my queen," Tomas told her as they strolled through the court yard arm in arm.

Mary felt her face grow warm, and she smiled. "Thank you, Tomas. But flattery isn't necessary." Despite the fact that she had taken up his offer to return with him to Portugal, Mary still felt unease around Tomas. Sure, he was no longer Greer's fancy, but, well-he wasn't necessarily hers either. Besides, she felt beside herself. She felt somewhat responsible for Sebastian's health, and for the men that France had lost.

And for Francis' pain. Mary let her smile fall as she looked over the court and towards the lake. It was her favorite place to hideaway. Lately she always felt like hiding.

"...Mary?"

Mary jerked from her thoughts and looked at Tomas. He was staring at her, concern etched in his features.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes! I'm sorry, I-" she paused. "I am beside myself, I'm afraid, and not sure if I'm alright at all," she admonished softly. "Things are happening-changing-so suddenly."

"Ah." Tomas paused. "You speak of your new alliance with my country, do you not?" he asked her, leading her 'round the bend and towards a clearing of trees. "Of our union? I WILL make you happy, Mary."

"I'm sure you will, Tomas. I-you are generous and kind. Helping my people, when they are in dire need of allies. I owe you and your country, and I am most grateful to you. I'm sure you will be a terrific king."

"Then what is it?"

"Well, just the other day, I was to be allied with France."

"Alliances constantly shift, Your Grace."

"Yes, that is true." Mary paused. "I guess I always expected, no thought, that my union with Francis, and my alliance with the French Court would never change. Yet, it seems that isn't so."

"Do you regret it?" Tomas asked, and Mary paused. Did she regret it. Of course she did! She wanted her alliance with French Court. At least, she had. It was all she had ever known. And now she was to have an alliance with another. Something about it all didn't settle right. Didn't feel right.

But her country...her country needed a queen that could act with reason. Not a queen who acted on hunches, inklings of feelings, or chances.

Mary shook her head slightly. "I only regret that things did not end better between Scotland and France." In more ways than she cared to say.

"Well. Portugal has no strained ties with France. So all shall end well, Mary. Do not think on it so much."

Mary nodded. Perhaps he was right.

§

The clearing was quaint; a small patch of trees housed in the court yard. It was absolutely beautiful.

Mary remembered the clearing from when she was a child. She would often venture into it, when she was young and curious and impatient. She couldn't keep still. Couldn't stop herself from wanting to see all there was to see.

Back then, though, it seemed so wild. Again, the realization hit her that perceptions vary so much when one is so unknowing. The trees had been gigantic, billowing out like canopies around her. A shelter from the cool rain and scorching sun. The had been her place to hide, to sulk, and sometimes to sleep. In the clearing of the trees she could be anything. Anyone. It was there where she first kissed a boy on the cheek, and began dreaming of the day when she and Francis would be wed.

So long, long ago.

Tomas untucked his arm from Mary's and took her hand, leading her into the trees. She went somewhat reluctantly; there was something strange about going to a place of memories with one who did not share the sentimentality. She didn't like the feeling. An eerie chill crept its way up her spine.

She looked at the trees, now smaller, more average, and less magical, then towards Tomas as he tugged her. "Why have we come here, Tomas?"

"Ah, at last, she snaps back to reality." Tomas stopped abruptly, and Mary almost ran into him. "Our courtship for the afternoon, I figured you'd like it." Mary stepped around him and gasped. In the center of the clearing laid a blanket, and baskets of food and bottles of wine.

"A picnic?" she inquired, surprised.

Tomas nodded. "Please sit and join me, Your Grace." Tomas sat down. He then held out his hand and motioned Mary to sit beside him.

Mary sat next to him, crossing her ankles. She placed her hands in her lap. She looked over at Tomas, whose eyes were trained on her. She watched his eyes slowly dart up and down her frame, his jaw set to give a haunted look to his features. She felt like cringing. She wished to run away; escape his stare.

"May I offer you some red wine, Your Grace?" he asked her, eyes still trained on her form. He placed two cups in front of them, and reached for a bottle of wine. He poured one for Mary first, then himself. She shifted uncomfortably.

"Thank you."

Tomas nodded. He raised his glass to hers, "To us," he said, clinking his glass to hers. Mary watched as he threw his head back, drinking the wine in a single gulp. She took a sip. Mary watched as Tomas reached for the bottle again.

"It is a lovely day," he mentioned. "Very warm. I wonder if there is to be another revelry tonight. Seems French Court has a habit of throwing them."

"It does appear to be that way, doesn't it?" Mary replied. She took another sip of wine from her glass. She gave a small smile, "But perhaps French Court just has things to celebrate often."

"Perhaps. Are you sure you're alright? You've barely touched your wine."

"Oh, I was merely taking my time with it." Mary sipped again pointedly. "It is very good."

"Then enjoy it, Mary," Tomas held out his hand, "Allow me."

Mary eyed him suspiciously, but knew it was proper of her to refuse him. She handed him her cup. Tomas grinned at her, took a swig from his own glass, and then moved in close to her.

"Tilt back your head."

"Tomas, I don't think that is such a good idea."

"Tilt your head back. For your future husband."

Mary frowned. She did not want to do this. Closing her eyes, she tilt back her head. The wine was warm and thick as it slid down her throat, her muscles contracting to swallow the liquid as it went down. She didn't know how long she sat there, with her wineglass perched to her face. When she could barely get even a drop she resisted against Tomas' hand, and he lowered it, grinning cheekily.

"Now that's more like it."

Mary lowered her head and watched as Tomas poured her another. "You like to drink." It was a statement. She wasn't accusing him, not exactly; but he still paused for a moment and looked over to her, his eyes cold and his face changed. Mary felt her lips part as her throat went dry.

"Is it a problem?" he asked her, "Can not someone want to wind down everyone once in awhile? It is very stressful to be a royal, as I'm sure you are aware. But isn't a walk in the park being bastard born, you are privileged enough to never know. So if I want to drink, I shall drink, for it is what pleases me."

Mary fumbled with the hem of her dress. "I am sorry, I was not speaking against it. How rude of me." She dropped her head in as an apology and kept her eyes downcasted, until she felt Tomas's fingers curl around her chin and gently tug upwards. Then she was looking into his eyes again, eyes that had warmed just marginally.

"Besides," he added with a smile, "we are supposed to be celebrating."

§

Although time progressed smoothly, Mary couldn't shake the feel of unease she had felt the moment Tomas gave her the cold stare. They were talking about what they missed about their countries; Tomas was on his fifth cup of wine. Mary was on her third.

She was sure she was beginning to feel it. She was a little warmer than she had been minutes before. Laughing with Tomas came a bit easier to her. She felt a little fuzzy.

She finished her glass, and there was Tomas, the generous host, ready to pour her another. "No, Tomas," Mary told him, shaking her head. "I believe I've had enough."

"Don't tell me that you feel it already?" He teased her, his words slightly rushed. "And we were having such a good time."

"Yes, well. I'm sorry to say that if I drink anymore I might not be able to stand. In fact, I have no idea if I can even stand now."

"Then let's find out." Tomas jumped to his feet. "Come up here, Mary. Try to stand."

Something told her not to. Something told her it was a bad idea; but she didn't listen to that gut-wrenching feeling. Instead she listened to the lightness in her head, the giggles the kept escaping her throat. Mary went to stand.

She hopped to her feet to abruptly, and felt herself stumbling. She stumbled right into Tomas, who was there waiting; arms instantly locked around her to steady her.

"Woah," he said softly. "Seems like someone can't walk after all."

"It would appear so, wouldn't it?" she giggled into his chest. She placed her hands on his chest to propell herself back a ways so she could look up at him. His green eyes were hazy, a lazy smile gracing full lips, and she wondered if she too looked so relaxed.

She felt Tomas' hand brush her cheek. "You will be the best bride I've had thus far," he murmured.

And then he leaned in, and touched his lips to hers.

Mary moved her face to the side before he could truly seal the kiss. "Tomas, what are you doing?"

"Kissing my future bride; what else?"

Mary shook her head. "I'm not ready."

"Nonsense, Mary. What better way to get ready than by practice?" Tomas pulled her face back to the direction of his own. Again, Mary turned away.

"Do you not find me attractive, Mary? Do I displease you?"

"No, Tomas; it's just..."

"The French Court. Francis."

Mary felt a jolt pass through her body at the accusation. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She felt like she was panicking; because there was that look again in Tomas' eyes, the look that made the blood leave her, and her throat constrict.

"These things take time, is all," she said in a voice that sounded much calmer than she felt. "I thought you would understand."

The look Tomas was giving her would have froze over Hell. She saw him work his jaw; heard the grind of his teeth. She looked down and felt his fingers roughly dig into her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"You are promised to me now, Mary. Do you not know what that means?"

Mary shivered. His voice. His eyes. His face; she was suddenly frightened by all of it. And his words...she swallowed audibly.

"Please let me go." She pressed her lips together when she noticed her voice quivered; she sounded like a frightened child. She just hoped Tomas would notice, too.

He was silent for a moment, content on staring back at her, with a look that promised terrible things. At last he spoke to her. "For now." He let her go then, and stepped past her.

Mary didn't look back at him. Legs shaking, she walked with haste away from Tomas and the clearing. She had to go. To her room. To her friends. She just needed someone. She had never felt so afraid in her life.

As she reached the open hall to the castle, Mary eagerly threw herself into it, welcoming it...

and ran right into Francis.

"Francis," Mary said, surprised. She hiccuped.

"Mary." Francis paused. "Where have you come from?"

"The clearing. I...I was with Tomas."

"Oh." He scrutinized her. "Have you been drinking? You smell of it."

"I had a few cups of wine, yes. Not enough to smell of it."

"It is on your breath," he elaborated. "If you were with Tomas, then where is he?"

Mary decided she wouldn't answer that. "I was going to retire to my room. I need a nap," she lied.

Francis nodded. "Then I shall not keep you. By the way, Bash is awake."

Mary's eyes widened. She felt a weight upon her lighten. Francis' brother was alive.

"I'm glad to hear your brother is alive." She gave him a gentle smile. Trying not to yearn for his touch, and failing. "I think I shall see him before I rest. Excuse me."

Whew, Mary thought. Pretending to be okay was becoming more of a chore than she previously expected.

§

The door to Sebastian's room wasn't far from her own, but actually in the hall next to hers. Mary found herself hesitating; she was still a bit shaken from her afternoon with Tomas; still a bit wobbly from the three cups of wine. She was sure it was the wine that led her there now, to Sebastian's quarters. Of course she had been worried about his well being; but they weren't so close to one another that she should risk impropriety. Mary frowned at herself. _Impropriety? What impropriety? He was injured at my aide, and the brother of my former fiance. There is no impropriety; even the pager is aware of my presence_. Shaking her head at herself, she opened the heavy oak door.

"Sebastian?" Mary called out. "Are you asleep?"

"If I said "yes", what would you have done?" Sebastian lied on a sofa, a few feet away from the door. Mary could only make out his silhouette when she first stepped into the room. The closer she got to him, the more she saw of him; his form, resting languidly on the sofa, his arms curled around him, and a smug smile upon his face. Beside the sofa was a seatee.

"Yes, Your Grace; I am asleep."

"You must be better then, if you can be so cheeky," Mary said to him. She wobbled a bit to the seatee and stumbled into it. Damn. That wine was really catching up with her.

"Your Grace?" Sebastian questioned, watching her. She waved his concern away.

"I'm fine; fine. Simple had a cup of wine or two." Or three.

"You've been drinking?" Sebastian asked her, surprise in his voice, but she wasn't fooled. He saw the twinkle in his eye.

"Tomas threw us a picnic in the clearing where the trees are," Mary replied. "There was a lot of wine. I think he planned on getting me a bit drunk."

"Only a bit?"

"I am really, really drunk." She suddenly said. Mary smacked her hand to her forehead. "I am saying so much nonsense."

"I quite enjoy it; it isn't everyday I see a queen at her least sober."

Mary giggled then. She couldn't help it.

She had only felt it with Francis before, but it was there now, as she sat beside Sebastian; a fluttering feeling in her stomach; an excessive need to smile. Of course, Mary reasoned within herself, it could have been the wine. But there was something different about how light her head felt, in comparison to when she had sat with Tomas among the trees.

So maybe that was why it made it so easy for her to explain to him what had happened.

"He tried to kiss me. Tomas. I ran away. I couldn't shake this feeling...I had, that I needed to leave him there, and get away."

"And he simply let you leave?"

Mary didn't answer. She looked down at her hands folded neatly in her lap. She didn't really know what to say. She wasn't even sure herself.

It was Sebastian who broke the silence. He gave a low whistle, and clucked his tongue. She looked over at him, and saw him smile at her, seemingly amused.

"Still kissing boys under canopies."

Mary flushed. She hid her face behind the curtain of her hair. "I have yet to kiss any other boy under a sky of trees," she told Sebastian. "You remembered...?"

"I never forgot," he replied. "It's not every day I get a gentle kiss from a wild girl."

"It was a cheek kiss," Mary elaborated, "and I was not wild."

Sebastian's laughter filled her ears. "Of course you were, Mary! Always running off. Never staying still. Very impatient towards everything. In fact, I think you loved those trees most out of any other place in the castle."

"It reminded me of home," she answered softly. "And, I could say the same of you, Sebastian."

"It was a sanctuary. One where there were always stories to share," he replied, voice just as soft, taking Mary into a faraway memory. An older boy, perched on top a tree. Blue eyes laughing at her when she tried to climb up after him; a firm hand holding her own, lifting her up, making her feel as if she could touch the rays of sun that streamed through the trees."

"I've grown up since then."

"You have," Sebastian agreed. "But you're still just as wild." Their eyes met. Sebastian leaned in. "Do you still give gentle pecks, Mary...?" he asked her, voice low so only she could hear. And suddenly she was caught. Caught in the same blue eyes that used to speak of wonderful adventures. The same blue eyes that made her dream.

"You made me wild," she answered back. "You and your tales of wonder. You made me this way." She gasped, surprised at her sudden admission. She heard Sebastian take a breath.

"I take great pleasure in it."

Mary could hear her heart, thundering in her chest, so obviously loud that Sebastian must have been deaf if he didn't hear it. She hoped he didn't. "I should take my leave," she told him, standing. "Do feel better." She turned to go.

"Thank you, Your Grace." Mary nodded, trying not to notice the sobriety in his tone, then tried as best she could to not run out the room; unaware of the sad blue eyes that watched her go.

§

"Sebastian?" Francis called into the room.

"Yes, brother."

"I saw Mary leave. How is she?"

Sebastian paused. What an excellent question. How was Mary? On the outside she seemed alright, herself. But her eyes...her eyes were the windows of her soul. And in her eyes, out of all the things he saw in them, he saw fear. Mary Stuart was afraid.

"Francis," Sebastian called, and his little brother was there, kneeling at his side. "You need to find out everything you can about Tomas."

He saw in Francis' eyes he understood, even before he nodded.


	3. Chapter 3

§

Francis shook with with silent anger as he processed the new information.

Or maybe it was fear.

"Are you sure about all this?" he asked the man that stood before him, his informant.

"Yes."

Francis clenched his fists at his sides. He nodded to the small sack of gold that laid on his desk. The informant picked it up immediately.

"Leave me."

The man bowed his head and turned on his heels.

It was only when he heard the door to his chamber shut that Francis gave into his anger, throwing the things before him off his desk in a fluid movement of rage. Damn it. If only they had known sooner of Tomas, the bastard heir of Portugal.

He cursed under his breath. What he wanted to do was storm to his father, demand that they cut all ties with Tomas and his country, and have the man thrown out the castle. Of course, he knew what his father would say-that alliances could not be threatened based on suspicions alone. He also knew that he would accuse Francis of believing them so readily because of his feelings for Mary.

Not that that wasn't part of the reason, he admitted to himself. If he said he didn't feel a pull to her, that she didn't make his heart beat fast in his chest, and sometimes make him forget himself, he would be a liar. Mary was...Mary was this temptation to him. One that he kept finding harder and harder to resist. He thought back to the words he had exchanged with his mother, when Mary had brought his mother's deceptions to light. At first, it didn't matter to him, the pull that was so strong. However now...

Now Mary's life was in danger, and he knew he had to find some way to protect her.

Perhaps he could speak to Mary; warn her about Tomas, make her sever her agreement with him. Perhaps she wouldn't listen. Francis cursed again. What was he to do; how was he going to save Mary's life? It dawned on him then, that it was his brother Bash who had told him to look into things and uncover the truth. Francis stood quickly, making his way to the door with haste.

§

Unlike two days prior, Francis didn't call out into his brother's room to announce his presence. He strolled in, tension working his jaw and his features. Sebastian was lying down, but awake.

He saw Sebastian search his face before his brow creased with worry. "What is it?" Sebastian inquired. "What's wrong?"

Francis knelt beside Sebastian, leaning in lest someone were to overhear them. "I inquired about Tomas," he told Sebastian.

He watched Sebastian struggle to sit up a bit more. "What have you found?"

Francis took a steadying breath. "There are rumors that he murdered his first wife. That in a drunken rage he tried to force her, and when she attempted to flee he struck her dead. Sebastian," Francis lowered his voice, "I heard that word was sent to alert the English we were riding to the waters to send troops to Scotland, that came from the direction of the castle. Bash, I think Tomas is working with the English; his company of men-"

"Yes, I believe so." Sebastian looked at him. "Have you told father?"

Francis shook his head. "He won't act on suspicion alone. And I doubt he would consider my request for action now..." Francis tried to keep the guilt out his voice as he looked at his brother, but failed. "Perhaps we can speak to Mary."

Sebastian grasped his arm. "Don't tell of this to Mary."

"Why not?"

"She has enough to deal with now. Her knowing could place her in more danger with Tomas, if these rumors are true."

Francis frowned. He hadn't thought of that.

"We must convince her to sever her agreement with Tomas," Sebastian continued. He looked Francis in the eye. "By whatever means are necessary."

Francis frown deepened. Of course he understood, but how...?

§

"You propose a tournament?" His father leaned in from his throne, amusement written on his face. "For Mary's favour?"

"Yes," Francis replied. "I do."

It had been three days since his meeting with Bash had taken place. For three whole days Francis struggled, trying to come up with ways, a way, to save Mary.

The tournament came to him while he was pondering over his swords and knives. If he could somehow show up Tomas, and win Mary's favor in front of the whole court...unraveling Tomas' true nature would come easy.

Which led him to stand before the thrones of his father and mother, who stared down at him with mixed interest. He looked around at the advisors of French Court, as they watched the scene with surveyor eyes. In a far corner was Tomas, watching him, a smirk on his face.

"Tomas has supplied Mary's country with men, in exchange for union. However, if I can win Mary's favour, she should stay at French Court."

"If Mary and Tomas have come to an understanding, then that is not your business to interfere."

Francis felt a rise of panic as he looked at his father. He saw the amusement drain away from his face. He was about to dismiss the whole notion all together.

"It's a first step," Francis blurted, "to securing a worthy alliance. Unless of course," he added quickly, "you're trying to be diplomatic, because you don't want me to embarrass an ally's son."

His father's eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, an accented voice sliced through the air; cold, menacing.

"You doubt my abilities."

Francis turned his attention to the Portuguese man as he walked from out the shadows. Anger shone on his face, "You think I am some weak bastard?"

Francis squared his shoulders and looked at Tomas. "I think that a queen needs a man well adverse in many talents. And, although you have helped Scotland when we could not, just because you can send troops to war does not mean you can fight it in your own power. If you are to be King of Portugal," Francis added emphasis pointedly, "You must prove to your allies that you will rule your country with strength. Or none will have faith in you. Including Scotland."

The predatory glare Tomas gave him was enough to almost make Francis draw his sword. Almost. He saw the wheels turning in the foreigner's head, even before he turned to Francis' father.

"King Henry," Tomas said, "I would like to accept young Francis' challenge of this...tournament. Let me prove my worth, to your kingdom, and to Scotland." He bowed humbly.

"Very well," Francis heard his father say. "This tournament will be three days from today."

Francis bowed his head as thanks. When he looked up, Tomas was staring at him, fingering his sword's sheathe.

§

"A tournament? Francis, are you sure?"

Francis was sitting in the seatee beside where his brother lied, helping clean his wounds. He shook his head against the doubt in Sebastian's voice.

"Mary is not a conventional girl. Even if you win, she will not take that as just means to stop her engagement between Tomas."

"I know that. But perhaps Mary will see that French Court has every intention to keep her and her country as an ally, and this tournament will restore her faith in us; our country." _In Me_. Francis sighed. At least, he hoped she would see things that way.

He tried as hard he could to convince himself that he was not acting out with his heart, but with reason; that any king would see the danger in the Scottish queen putting herself in a position that would cost her life. He rubbed a tired hand across his face. "Tell me, am I being rash? Who am I to stop her union with Tomas, if it is what she truly desires; if it will benefit her people?" He looked at Sebastian. "Am I acting out, like I had with you?"

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. "Listen to me, little brother," he said. He placed his hand on Francis'. "_Her people will not benefit if she is dead_."

* * *

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	4. Chapter 4

§

Francis opened his eyes with a gasp. His body glistened in sweat, his hands clutching the sheets. For a brief second he couldn't breathe. Forcing air threw his lips, he let out a ragged breath.

_"Mary_!"

He had had a dream; that he had failed to keep her from Tomas, and that Tomas had claimed her life, leaving her lying in the woods, among a bed of flowers; her blood staining the white petals; tears falling from the corner of her eyes. He drew in another ragged breath and tried to calm his hammering heart. It was just a dream. _It was just a dream. _

But for how long?

There was a sudden knock on his door, quick and short; urgent, that made Francis jump. He closed his eyes in an attempt to compose himself, then stood, walking to the door.

It was Mary. "What do you think you are doing?" she hissed at him.

"What?"

"I heard about the tournament tomorrow from Tomas. I've been searching the castle for you these past two days, Francis. You can't do this."

"I can't do this," Francis repeated dryly. "You _do_ realize it's improper to come to a man's chambers so late? With your agreement with Tomas, it could damage your reputation."

Mary narrowed her eyes. "Let me in then."

Francis halted.

"Let me in, or face ruining my reputation."

Francis relented, not wanting to start rumors. He opened the door wide and allowed her through. He shut the door behind her.

She was wearing a white night gown that went to her ankles, somewhat concealed by her luscious royal purple robe. Her raven colored hair cascaded down her back in single braids. She looked was a daisy tucked behind her right ear. He wondered if Tomas had given it to her. Francis watched as Mary circled the room, inspecting it. He would wait for her to speak, to collect her thoughts.

"Why have you petitioned your father and challenged Tomas to a tournament?" Mary finally asked him. She walked towards him and stood a ways in front of him as he leaned against the door.

"You know why," Francis told her.

"For my favour," she sounded bitter. "Why would you want it?"

Francis felt his heart stop. Why would he want it? Because he didn't want her to go. "Mary-"

"You _never_ had any intention of marrying me, Francis. Never!" Mary exclaimed angrily. "When the English threatened our union, you pretended to love me. When England _threatens my country's border_, you-tell me to marry someone else; that you can do _nothing_ for my country! _And you k-_" Mary stopped abruptly. Francis watched as she covered her face with her hands. "What is it, Francis? What makes you suddenly care so much for me?"

Francis looked into her eyes. Her gorgeous brown eyes. Searching for the answer to her questioning stare in his voice; trying to convey it in his eyes. He cared for her. He was enchanted by her. "I want to protect you," he told her slowly.

"Protect me from what?"

"Mary..." Francis hesitated, Sebastian's warning sounding in his head. "Looks can be deceiving. I know that Tomas has promised you assurances of your country's protection, and I understand your inclinations to accept those assurances, but Mary-although I can not prove it, or hold evidence in my hand-if you marry Tomas it will be your ruin. Yours, and your country's."

Mary took a step back. There was a fire in her eyes, an anger Francis had never seen before. "How dare you. _How dare you._"

Francis shook his head. "Mary-"

"You speak of _ruin_," she interjected. "Ruin, for me and my country, Francis. I have been here for several weeks, because of an alliance between our countries to wed _you_. An alliance that _your_ father wants to keep in his back pocket until it can be of immediate necessity; an alliance that you and your court have been slow to want to honor."

Francis stepped to her. "Mary, please-"

"The only ruin for my people and myself is France." Mary stepped around him and Francis reached for her, tugging her arm and drawing her into him. He grabbed her face with his hands.

"I _will_ compete in this tournament; I _will_ show you that France is a worthier ally than Portugal," he told her, and he meant it. No matter what, he would make her see.

"You've had weeks for that," Mary all but spat at him. She shrugged out of his arms.

"Even if you win," she told him, "you _will not_ have my favour."

* * *

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	5. Chapter 5

§

Just as his father said, the tournament was on. Francis stood waiting in the tournament area. There were benches and seats around him, decorated with colorful tassels and string. People were already piling into the seats, their eagerness showing on their faces. His mother, father, Sebastion, and Diane sat to the left in the top row. He looked at his brother, and was glad to see that he showed no discomfort; because of Nostradamus, Sebastian's wound was near healed.

On the last row and nearest towards the tournament area sat Mary. Unlike the night before, her hair wasn't braided. It fell as loose curls around her face. She was wearing a yellow sun dress with dark orange sequins arranged in floral patterns; her dark colored cloak tied around her neck and hung about her as if to shield her from the cool breeze. And she was frowning, lips pursed, eyes scanning the masses, until they locked on his, and she looked away.

Francis sighed. She was still angry with him. He cast his brother a glance and found Sebastian staring at him, looking obvious of his exchange between the Scottish queen. He nodded slightly, and gave Francis a look that only he would understand._ You can do this. _Francis nodded back. He saw Sebastian's eyes flicker to something beyond him. Turning, Francis saw a man of Tomas', walking to sit on a bench on the right side. Francis frowned, having never seen the man before. Where did this man come from?

And then he saw Tomas, wearing his usual Portuguese attire, all Satin and gray intricacies. Tomas gave Francis a cold stare as he made his way into the tournament area, and Francis readily returned the glare. When both he and Tomas were standing in the center of the tournament area, Francis' father began to speak.

"The winner of this tournament will have the honor of receiving Queen Mary Stuart's Favour," his father said. "As customary, the Challenged, Tomas of Palmela of Portugal, you may choose the duel."

Francis clenched his teeth as Tomas took a step forward. He could feel the tension radiating off of him in waves, and willed himself to relax. _Just breathe. Focus_.

Tomas bowed his head, then straightened his posture. "Your Highness, although I believe it is customary for one to engage in a duel of archery-I request, if I may, a sword duel. The one who draws first blood," Tomas spoke to Francis' father, "shall be declared the victor, and entitled to Her Magesty's favour."

There were murmurs among the crowd. Francis' eyes flew to the top row, where his father sat. He saw an amused look in the king's eye. Francis looked to his mother, whose face had went slack with apprehension. Francis finally set his eyes on Mary, and saw she had clutched the knot of her cloak, she stared at Tomas with widened eyes, her mouth open. He watched her give a slight shake of her head, that would not be visible to anyone who wasn't watching her closely. Her eyes flickered to his. She looked afraid.

His father spoke, snapping Francis out of his thoughts. "Very well," he said. "The tournament has been set. A duel to first blood," his father bellowed. Francis couldn't hide his glare as he stared up at his father; his father was enjoying this.

§

He didn't get to pick a sword of his choosing. He supposed he most likely could have if he had brought up the subject, and evened out his odds a bit, but he kept silent.

The sword that he was given was lighter than the wooden swords his father and brother sparred with. Swords were never generally too heavy, but the unfamiliar sword felt uneasy and stiff in his hand. The hand-and-a-half sword he recieved belonged to one of the guards; Tomas as well recieved a longsword by a castle guard. Francis watched as he took it with a slight frown, balanced its weight from one hand to the other, and then smiled, easing into a comfortable stance. Francis swallowed. He could practically see the tension leave his opponent, whereas his was palpable.

He looked over at Mary and saw her chatter with her ladies-in-waiting, and remembered her words from the night before. He suddenly questioned, again, why he was doing what he was about to do. So what of he wanted to keep her there with him at the castle? What if she wasn't in any danger at all? What if those rumors were just ill rumors? What gave him the right to try to claim her now?

_Francis_. Francis could feel eyes on him. Casting his glance further up, he saw Bash's eyes beseeching him, urging him. His elder brother knew him so well, Francis thought; or maybe the doubt was noticeable on his face. He stared into his brother's blue eyes, his words swirling around his head, that he needed to win in order to keep her alive. Francis looked away. He had to breathe. Focus. He couldn't have his mind elsewhere in this duel. He could not afford it. Francis shook his head, begging it to clear; he took his stance, arms and knees bent, feet forward; one foot on front of the other. He held his sword out in front of him.

He heard his father speak, "It is now time for the duel between Tomas of Palmela and Francis of French Court," he paused as excited claps filled the air. "He whom draws first blood is declared the victor. You may begin."

Francis narrowed his eyes on Tomas._ This was it. This was it_. All he needed was first blood; one single cut, however small. He began to move, circling towards Tomas.

Truth be told he wasn't that equipped with a sword. Sure, he could use one, and he could fight and kill, but swordsmanship was not his most adequate strength. Francis knew for fact, that Sebastian was probably a lot better than he, seeing as he always sparred with their father on regular occasion. When he had placed the wager for French companies and sparred with his father, that had been a first in a very long time. Maybe even ever.

Francis hoped that Tomas wasn't as good with his swordmanship as he appeared. Because if that were the case, he had a very slim chance at winning.

The two were circling each other, each waiting on the other to make the first move. Francis shook his head at the Portuguese prince; it would not be him that charged first. He knew that Tomas had certain moments when he was very impatient. Francis hoped that was such moment.

It was. Francis watched as Tomas stepped forward, raising his longsword high. He swing it down, and Francis met it, metal clanking. Tomas backed away and swung again to the side, and Francis whirled, guarding to the left, defending himself. He pushed against Tomas sword, making Tomas take another step back, and charged him.

The people of French Court were silent, watching. At some points in time, some people gasped.

Although it was supposed to be a "friendly" duel, Francis felt as if he were battling to save his life. Tomas was relentless; Francis broke measure, then twirled, attempting a contratempo, which was met by Tomas' defensive guard.

_Damn_, Francis thought when they broke measure again. He was breathing heavily, his arms already aching. He had no idea how long they had been fighting, but his lack of stamina told him it had been quite some time. When Tomas charged again he dodged it, thrusting his body into a cavazione, dropping low, and away from Tomas' blade, maneuvering towards Tomas' other side. Tomas in turn performed his own cavazione, a controcavazione, countering Francis' attempt.

And then, just when Francis thought that things couldn't get more difficult, he felt Tomas' foot as it hit him in the chest.

There were immediate gasps in the crowd as Francis felt himself pushed back. He landed on his back, and his sword slipped out his hand when he loosened his grip on the hilt, surprised by the pain. It wasn't something he had expected. Francis shut his eyes against the burn in his chest. He was so exhausted, so tired. He knew had to move quickly, but white flashes clouded his vision, and he knew he had to wait for them to fade.

Which was time he didn't have, Francis realized, as he heard Tomas' footsteps coming towards him.

Despite the pain he rolled over on his stomach, searching for his sword. It was right there at his feet, and closer to Tomas than him in his current condition. He frantically moved his body, and crawled towards it, his fingers barely brushing the hilt. He stretched his arms further, finally curling his hand around his sword. He sat on his knees and started to pull his sword to him.

Tomas' foot stomped on the end of the blade, stopping its movement. Francis looked up, and was met by Tomas' cold stare, and small smile. There was something evil about his facial features; something lethal.

And that was when Francis realized that his suspicions of Tomas of Palmela were more than just rumors.

Another kick to his chest sent Francis spiraling onto his back again. He heard his pained groan, heard the scuff of his sword as it was dragged off the ground. He heard Tomas approach him, but he was in too much pain to get away. Francis felt Tomas' weight upon him as he again placed his foot on his chest, this time to keep him from getting away. This man, Francis thought, this man wants to kill me. He opened his eyes and saw both swords pointed at him. Francis held his breath, waiting for his father's intervention. Waiting on a miracle. Waiting on anything.

And then, "Francis!"

His name sliced through the air, loud and panicked; and Scottish. But Francis didn't look towards the sound. He kept his eyes on Tomas' face, his hands on the boot that rest on top his heart. He saw many things in Tomas' face then-his jaw clenching, a hesitation in his features. But predominantly, _rage_. Rage that her voice had sounded his name. Rage that Tomas had to remember where he was, and couldn't kill him.

Tomas slammed Francis' sword into the hearth next to his head. Francis waited. He then watched as Tomas raised his sword to Francis' chest, and sliced at the skin showing along his collar bone. Francis could feel the sting, as the blood pushed its way through the small wound.

"First cut," Tomas said darkly. Then he stepped away.

As Francis tried to steady his breathing, he finally dared himself to look over; Mary stood, one hand clutching the knot of her cloak again, the other clasped over mouth. There was fear in her features, and in her eyes. Eyes that stared straight at him.

Then Tomas was there, at Mary's side. Francis watched as Tomas knelt before her, a rose in his hand.

"Your Grace," Tomas said, "Will you give me your favour?"

Mary stared at Francis for only a second more, before her gaze settled on Tomas._ No, _Francis thought. _Please_. He watched Mary take the rose.

Francis forced himself to look away, and rolled onto his side. He had failed.

§

That night there was to be a banquet in honor of the victor. Food, wine, dancing.

Francis stood, staring out his window at the courtyard. He took another drink from his flask, the hard liquor burning his throat, and he welcomed it. But it didn't take away the burn he felt in his heart.

He didn't care if French Court saw him as being an upset child. He had no plans on attending the banquet. Fuck that banquet. Fuck Tomas. He clenched his jaw and brought the liquor back to his throat.

There was a firm knock on his door. "Go away," he yelled. He heard his door open.

"Little brother."

"I failed, Bash," Francis said to his brother, not taking his gaze away from the courtyard. "I _failed_. In front of everyone. In front of French Court, our father, my mother..." _And Mary_. Francis put his arm on the glass, and set his forehead upon it.

"There will be another time to redeem yourself, Francis," Bash told him. "You fought considerably well, considering how skilled Tomas is. No one thinks that you're incapable-"

"Oh, is that so?" Francis turned to look at his brother. He gave Bash a humorless laugh. "Is that what _father_ thinks? Or Mary? Or Tomas, the bloody bastard!" Francis grit his teeth. "I am to be a king one day, Bash. King of the French Court! And I lose in front of my own people, while trying to prove our country's worth to the woman who should be my wife! And people think I am _not incapable_?" Francis turned back to the window.

"She called out your name," Bash told him after a moment. "She called out your name, Francis."

Francis shook his head. Not that any of that mattered. "Leave me."

He heard his brother take a step towards him.

"Do not come any closer to me, Sebastian," Francis ordered. "Do not try to sway my mind on this. Just leave me."

"You can't give up now. There are still ways-"

"Do you not hear me?" Francis shouted. "What do I do, to get you to understand? There is nothing more I can do. I tried, and I failed. I tried-with everything I had-and failed. And I wish to be alone now!" He turned again to meet Bash's eyes. "Do I have to command you to leave, as your Dauphin?"

Francis refused to flinch at the look that his brother gave him. He would not. Bash shook his head. He gave Francis a mock bow, then turned on his heels. When the door was shut, Francis turned back to the window. He drank from the flask again.

He had tried. There was nothing more he could do. He had lost. He had lost her. And he hated it. Francis hated it with every fiber of his being.

His musings were interrupted by another knock on his door, and he cursed. Why wasn't his brother getting the hint? He stalked to his door and flung it open. "Listen here, Sebastian-"

"Francis."

Francis trailed off, staring into Mary's wide eyes.

"Why are you here?"

"I went to find you. You weren't at the banquet."

Francis looked away from her, the girl whose favour he'd lost. "You face rumors coming here," he told her. "Go back to your intended, Mary." He went to shut the door.

"Wait, Francis!" Mary pushed against the door. "Please."

He looked into her eyes again. Opened the door slightly. She slipped past him into the room, and he shut the door behind her.

"Speak, Mary." He took another drink.

"I'm sorry."

His brows furrowed.

"For what I said to you, last night. I'm sorry, Francis."

Francis shook his head. It didn't matter now. "I don't need your pity," he replied.

"This isn't pity!" she cried. "I mean it, Francis. I was just so confused and hurt. I didn't mean what I said to you, I...I would always give you my favour, Francis."

"Yet you didn't."

"How could I?" she asked him, and he didn't answer her, fully aware that their lives were not their own.

"I thought Tomas was really going to wound you," she said quietly, reminding Francis of the moment during the tournament when she had called out his name.

"Only my pride," he murmured. "I failed. I tried all I could to keep you here. It almost worked."

"Francis..." Mary took a step towards him, and he didn't stop her. When she was only a length away, she stopped, staring at his chest.

"Did it hurt?"

She was referring to his scar. Francis shook his head.

"Not really."

Then suddenly her hands were, her fingers gliding along the healing cut. Francis sucked in a breath, his heart beating hard in his chest.

Then just as quick the gentle touch was gone. "I'm sorry, how rude of me," she told him, looking up at him. "I should probably-"

_No_. With haste Francis bent his head, and captured her lips with his own. At first, she didn't respond, her body tensing. But then she was kissing him back, moving her mouth with his, relaxing against him.

Francis wrapped his arms around her waist, and backed her up against the door. He moved his mouth to her neck, and was graced with a small gasp.

"Mary," he whispered reverently. "_Mary_."

He found her mouth again, and felt her hands tangle in his hair. It felt so good. A noise sounded in his throat.

"Stay, Mary," he pleaded when he broke the kiss. "Stay. Here in my court."

"I don't understand. Francis, I...we...we cannot...I cannot..."

"Yes," Francis told her, kissing her chastely, "you can."

"But-Tomas...I don't know how to break the agreement. He has already sent his men to my country's aide. Francis, I-"

"He won't have to know of this." Francis grasped her hand in his own. "About this moment. None of it, Mary. It will be our secret."

He watched as Mary shakily nodded.

And that's when it hit him; a way to get her to stay.

"I have to go," she told him urgently. He looked into her brown eyes and nodded. She needed space from him, for now.

He stepped back as to give her some room so she too could step back and he could open the door. She went towards it, and he grabbed her arm.

"Will you meet me in the clearing of trees tomorrow?" he asked her. "After breakfast."

"Francis, I-"

"Don't answer," he said quickly. He brought her hand to his lips and placed a kiss gently on her knuckles. "I will wait for you there." He released her hand.

* * *

AEN: Thank you for all your reviews! Don't forget to keep giving me them! One more chapter to go before tonight's new episode! Are you all excited? And, never fear, Mash fans-Sebastian is about to get his opening! Please review!(:


	6. Chapter 6

§

Francis moved Mary up so he could nuzzle her neck. He pressed a gentle kiss on the small mark he'd gave her, and smiled at her contented sigh. For the past three days he'd had her to himself in the clearing of trees, kissing her, holding her. Each time he asked her to stay with him, in French Court. Each time she turned him away, telling him how she wasn't sure.

That day when they had meant in the clearing, he hadn't brought it up. She had been anxious when she met with him, telling him they needed to talk, that it was urgent. Fear had got the better of him, fear that she would tell him that they had to stop their affair. So he had silenced her with a kiss, leaving her breathless as he knew he always did.

They now snuggled, his arm draped around her waist. He played with a lock of her hair. "So, are you staying now?" he asked her softly. Hopefully.

He felt her stiffen against him as she sat up. He looked into her eyes, and saw only sadness there. "Mary?"

"I tried to talk to Tomas."

He sat up with her. "What did he say?"

"I told him that I wasn't sure if Portugal was the best choice for my country's alliance. What if the pope cancelled out his legitimacy? Tomas..." Mary bit her lip. Her eyes started becoming glossy.

"Mary." Francis rubbed soothing circles along her arm.

"He said that I had made an agreement, and that as a queen I had to honor it, lest something befall my country by the English soldiers on our border." Her voice quivered. "That-" she cast him a wary look, "no matter how many touches you stole from him, he would not break our engagement. He knows, Francis. I don't know how, but he does."

Francis frowned. This news was unsettling. He had a feeling, that it was only about to get worse. "We'll figure out something," he told her. "There has to be a way out of it. He threatened your country, Mary."

She sighed. "I know. The thing is, he had originally planned on leaving when the week was out. But went I went to him, he got angry..."

"Mary?"

"He's taking us to Portugal in the morning."

Francis reered as if he had been slapped. "Why didn't you say anything before?" he demanded of her. He struggled to his feet. He was going to stop this. No way. He wasn't going to lose her so soon.

"I tried to tell you. This is why I came her, but then we-" she looked down. "I'm sorry."

It was Francis' turn to sigh. He knew it wasn't her fault.

"I'm going to stop this."

"Francis?"

"I won't let you leave, Mary," he told her, walking away.

When he made inside the castle, he went in search of his brother. Bash would know what to do.

He found Bash in his room.

"He's taking her away tomorrow. We have to stop him."

Bash tucked his shirt in his trousers. "Why so soon?" he asked.

Neither Francis nor Bash spoke of the fight they'd had a week before. They just understood each other perfectly that way; no apologies were needed.

"Mary and I have been...intimately involved for the past three days," he admitted to Bash, who raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I thought that maybe I could convince her to say."

"By seducing her?"

"Not like I had a lot of options," he said defensively.

A part of Francis felt bad about what he'd done. Using her feelings against her. But, he couldn't think of any other way to get her to stay. At least, that was what he kept telling himself.

Now it seemed as if he'd completely run out of options.

"Okay, then. What do you suggest we do?" Bash said, looking at him expectantly.

Excellent question. Francis had been asking himself that same question this whole time.

"I was thinking that I could talk to Father." He stared at Bash's face, trying to read it. He couldn't.

"That could work," Bash told him instead. "However, we have no proof of our suspicions." Bash stepped in front of him. "I could help with that."

"What?" Francis stared at his brother, dumbfounded. "How?"

Bash smiled, "Simple. Ask the source of course." He clapped Francis on the shoulder. "Now go find Father."

Francis nodded. "Right."

He watched Bash walk past him. "And Francis?" he said. Francis turned.

"Welcome back."

§

Francis had to wait for his father to return to the castle from dropping Diane at their country house. When he walked into his father's chambers, Bash was already there. There was a fresh mark on his right cheek, below his eye. It was a bit swollen, and Francis wondered how it got there. Francis squared his shoulders.

"Father," he said. "We cannot let Mary marry Tomas."

His father sighed. He was dressing into his robe. "Didn't we already talk about this? If I recall, you suggested a tournament for Mary's favour-which you lost, I might add."

"Father, Tomas is not right for the Scottish court, nor is he right for French Court. If we are wise, we won't have any agreement with him whatsoever, and we will make him leave alone, tomorrow."

"Oh really?" His father looked at him with cold eyes. "Don't you think you've done enough for this court, following mere hunches, Francis? I am staring to wonder if you are ready to be king."

"It is no hunch. We have proof. Father, Bash-"

"Do not bring Sebastian into this. And Sebastian, don't you interfere." Sebastian, who had opened his mouth, closed it. "_I_ am king, Francis. I decided what it right for the people. And the people in my castle. Not you. You should learn not to always follow your heart. People end up hurt."

Francis shook with silent anger. He forced himself to breathe. To lie. "It is not my heart I am following, but my reason. We need the Scottish Queen on our side, politically. By whatever means."

"Really?" His father was smiling then. "And what say you to that, Your Grace? Do you agree that Scotland is needed by this court?"

Francis turned. There, in the doorway of his father's chamber, was Mary.

"Mary," he breathed, petrified. How much had she heard...?

He took a step in her direction. "I can explain. I was merely explaining to my father-"

"Save it, Francis."

"Mary!"

He watched as she ran off. He took another step with the intent of running after her, but stopped himself. Not here. Not now. He looked to his brother, who was eyeing the spot where Mary just left. His eyes met Francis', and he nodded.

He watched as Bash walked out the door way, then turned his attentions to his father. He narrowed his eyes. This was going to be a long night.

§

_(What's up? Been a minute since we kicked it, you've been caught up; with those bitches, I don't get it-you're a star, Love. You shouldn't have to deal with that. I'd never make you feel like that. _

_'Cause I love me. I love me enough for the both of us. That's why you trust me; I know you've been through more than most of us._

_So what are you-what are you, what are you-so afraid of? Darling, you..._

_you give but cannot take Love.)_

Sebastian followed her. She had a head start on him, but he was sure he knew where she was going.

It was his intention to back up Francis. He had no real proof other than what he had seen with his own eyes when he went to Tomas chamber. If his father hadn't been so angry, he would have listened to him. To them.

But the look he saw in Mary's eyes...that overwhelming sadness. That hurt.

Sebastian knew his brother didn't mean the words he'd spoke to his father. He knew, that apart of Francis was begining to love Mary. Francis didn't see it yet, but he, and so many of the court, already did. It was only a matter of time.

Mary had walked in at an inopportune moment. If only she hadn't. She wouldn't feel how she had.

When Sebastian made it to the tree clearing, she was already there. He approached cautiously. Quietly. She was pacing. Sebastian watched as she ran her hands over her face, her hair.

"Mary," he called out to her. "Mary. It isn't what you think."

Mary turned around and looked at him. He saw her eyes were wild, glistening. She had been crying.

"It isn't what I think? You're right, Sebastian; it isn't what I think _at all."_

"No, Mary," Sebastian stepped closer to her, "what Francis told our father-"

"Do you know what he's done these past three days? To me. With us?" she asked him. "The things that he's said? The way he's-" she stopped herself. "At the end of the day, I'm a dotted line on a piece of parchment for your Court."

_Oh, Mary_. Sebastian could feel her sadness rolling off of her in waves. It washed over him. Made it hard for him to breathe. Hard for him to ignore the tears that trickled down her cheeks. He took another step towards her. He was now just a foot away.

"Mary, Francis was just trying to protect you."

_"Protect me_," she repeated with incredulous-ness. "From Tomas, right?" she scoffed. She paused, and looked at him. "Protect me," she said again, staring at him.

Sebastian didn't like it. He didn't like how she was looking at him. It made his chest hurt. Made him feel like he had wronged her, too; maybe he had. "Mary..."

"You've known about what's been going on between Francis and I." It was a statement. And with the look in her eyes, he desperately wished he could deny it. With every fiber of his being.

But he couldn't. "Yes; but Mary-"

Her slap came hard and fast. Sebastian stared at her, surprised. She was right in front of him now, betrayal in her eyes. Anger.

But not at Francis, he realized. At _him_.

For a moment she seemed just as stunned as he that she had hit him; Mary took a step back, hand flying to her mouth, her lips parted. Then she looked away, and turned on her heels. "Just go away," she whispered. "Leave me alone."

Sebastian wanted to grab her. Hold her. Whisper he was sorry over and over again. Wipe away her tears and replace her pain. He wanted to tell her that if he could, he would take away her title; her responsibility; her helplessness; make her just a girl, who would never have to feel so much sorrow.

He wanted to keep her safe. He wanted her to have happiness. For the first time, he saw Mary Stuart hate herself beyond reasoning. He took a breath.

"There are rumors that Tomas is violent. Towards his servants. He-"

"I can take care of myself!" she screamed at him, turning to face him again. "I am a _queen_. I am a royal. I can take care of my own life, _without_ _you_ _and_ _your_ _brother_ trying to do it for me with your deceptions and your lies-"

"We suspect him of telling the English we were sending men to aide your borders," Sebastian interjected. He watched her eyes widen. "We suspect that he is the reason that I almost died."

She was suddenly staring at him with new eyes. The anger drained away from her face, as well as the color, and she stared up at him with only sadness. She shook her head. "Portugal and France have no quarrel. Why would you suspect him of such a thing?"

"Mary, you forget that he is not Portugal; just a bastard _from_ it." He stepped close to her again. "Do you _honestly_ think that he is not capable of such a thing? Do you feel it in your _heart_ that he would not do this?"

Mary stood quiet, looking sickly. He watched her swallow.

"You said you find him suspect," she said slowly.

"I can prove he had." At the question in her eyes, he said, "I went to see him in his chambers today, to confirm my suspicions."

"And he admitted it to you?"

Sebastian shook his head, remembering the quarrel. Feeling the Portuguese man's knuckles as they collided with his cheek. He gave her a smile. "Not verbally." Her eyes flew to his right cheek, and he nodded. He frowned then, looking down at her.

"There have been rumors that he killed his first wife." She gasped. "Mary, you cannot marry him."

She shook her head, fear on her features. "Without verbal proof, my uncle and mother will not let me break this agreement so easily, Sebastian."

He stared at her. He was incredulous. He felt his anger brewing. "Is not your _life_ of importance? Mary, he is not a good man! For you or your country, yet you-"

"If I had any other option, don't you think I would take it?" she suddenly exclaimed. "I am a _queen_, Sebastian. I am not lucky enough to be free. People like me and your brother cannot have the freedom that you have, no matter how badly we want it. Our lives belong to our countries. Not to us." She smiled at him sadly.

"What can I do, Sebastian? If I end the engagement, he will withdraw his troops, and my people may fall to England's hands. Even worse of a possibility, he could order his men to attack the villages alongside the border. To simply...end our newfound union, could cost lives."

"It already has," Sebastian pleaded with her. "And almost mine," he added gently. "Doesn't that matter?"

"_Of course_ it does! But I cannot fail the country I was born to protect. I have no other options."

"You could stay."

"And be a political prize? Playing house with a future king who won't truly let himself love me? Waiting for the moment when I can be of _use_ to your father, Francis, and France? My people don't have that kind of time to wait."

"Mary...I cannot take back what Francis did. How he did it," Sebastian explained to her slowly, "and I'm sorry for that. I would if I could, simply so I would not have to see your broken heart in your stare," he admonished softly, staring into her eyes. He felt the pull again. The overwhelming need to never look away from her eyes. To feel her hair in between his fingers; find how soft her lips were to kiss. He swallowed against the lump forming in his throat.

"Stay," he repeated, his voice horse. He coughed to mask it and rein in his sudden need for her, lest she suspect.

"But I am so alone here, Sebastian," she whispered, her voice cracking, and it broke his heart. "I am so alone."

But she wasn't. Mary wasn't alone. She had him.

She would always have him.

So maybe that was why he turned away from her, and went towards the nearest tree. Reaching up to grab onto a branch or two, he started propelling himself up.

"Sebastian?" she called up to him.

"Do you remember this?" he turned on the branch, and stared down at her. "You used to come to this clearing all the time when you wanted to be alone. I stumbled upon you leaning against this very tree. You looked at me like I was some alien. '_Are you Sebastian? You're Francis' brother. I was told I would never meet you.'_" He gave her a small smile. Placing one hand on the tree stump, he bent on his knees.

"I looked down at you, and asked if you had a problem meeting the bastard brother. You frowned at me and said, '_Bastard? You call yourself that? You should love yourself more. You're so free.'_"

He watched her small smile. "I remember."

Sebastian took a breath. "I made you wild. You made me love myself, Mary. _You_ made me realize I was free." He watched as she bent her head low, hiding her face with the curtain of her hair.

"After that day, I always came here. To see you."

"Me?"

"_Yes_." His heart was pounding. Did she hear it? Was hers? "You'd always make me share my stories. Your eyes would just light up, when I'd return with a cut or a bruise, or a deer carcus-" he chuckled. "One day, I came to see you, and you were trying to jump and reach the branches of this tree."

"I was trying to climb it."

"I took a big jump, and made my way up here-and you pouted! You were so upset, because I was "so big" and you were "so small".

"I was small," she defended. She looked at him again, "but you held out your hand. And you waited, staring at me. I took it, and you pulled me up."

Sebastian held out his hand.

"Take it again, Mary."

"Sebastian-"

"You are not alone here. You were never alone here. I promise you never will be. I promise, Mary. When France, my father, Francis-when you feel like you have no one, there will always be someone." _There will always be me. _

Mary hesitantly walked forward. Her eyes locked on his outstretched hand, and just like all those years ago he waited, willing her to take it. When she reached out, and brushed her fingertips against his own, he forgot how to breathe. The jolt that vibrated through his body was so strong, the spark, the connection he knew wasn't one-sided when he heard her gasp and hastily try to withdraw her hand.

Sebastian, just as quickly, grasped it. Low in his crouch, he slowly began standing as he aided her up into the tree with him. When Mary was in the tree he placed both hands on her arms to steady her.

"Mary," he said, drawing her attentions to him. "You don't have to fight on your own."

Sebastian saw a mixture of things on her face then. So many emotions past in her stare, as he watched her internal struggle.

And then she was sobbing. Body-wrenching tears that shook her frame, and made her sink to her knees. Sebastian went down with her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into him.

"Mary, Mary, _Mary_," he whispered over again, shushing her, comforting her. "It's okay, Mary," he said to her. "_You're okay now_."

He'd meant it when he said it, and they both knew it.

§

Sebastian stood to the side of the wall, arms behind his back, watching. Mary was before Catherine and his father. She stood in front of Tomas, who looked tense.

"Tomas of Portugal," Mary said. "I thank you for all you have done for my country. However, I simply cannot abandon an alliance that I have had since childhood. I am regretfully sorry."

"_You bitch_." Sebastian stepped forward as Tomas began shouting his expletives at Mary. "You cannot do this to me. We had an agreement. If I withdraw my men, the English will have your people. Perhaps my men could take the lives of your country men!" Sebastian glanced at his father, who was watching the scene with displeasure.

While Sebastian had been comforting Mary, Francis had finally made headway with their father. If proof could be shown in front of their father's face, France would no longer have any ties with Tomas of Palmela. And Mary would not be required to marry him.

His father was begining to see it now. It was only a matter of time.

At Tomas' threats, Mary took a few steps back, which Tomas met in strides. Sebastian saw the guards approach them to apprehend him, motioned to by his father. He finally believed.

The guards quickened their pace when they saw Tomas un-sheathe his dagger.

"I will _kill_ you, Mary, Queen of Scots!" Tomas bellowed, running for her. Sebastian drew his sword, and began to rush towards Mary, but halted when the guards apprehended him. Tomas' struggle was futile.

"_You bitch_," he hissed at her.

"Silence, Tomas of Portugal. No, just _Tomas_." Sebastian's eyes locked on Mary's form as she recovered from Tomas' chase of her. With straightened shoulders she approached him. Sebastian quietly put his sword back in it's sheathe, and watched her.

Her hand came quick and fast across Tomas' face. "That is for hitting the face of the son of the king," she said coldly. "And for threatening the lives of my country men. You have threatened war on my country, and have declared it by your treason against the French Court, by the death of their men. It will be your head that pays for all that you have done." He watched as Mary bowed to his father.

"He took the lives of your men, and almost your first born. He threatened my life, and the lives of my people. I want a telegram sent to the King of Portugal ensuring that the Portuguese companies that have massed on my borders will continue offering their protection, in exchange for the pardon I shall grant the Portuguese king and the avoidance of war," Mary said.

"Done." His father stood. Sebastian watched as his eyes settled on first Francis, then him. "Very well done, my sons." Then, "Guards, take Tomas of Palmela away."

Sebastian watched as Mary whipped her head around the room, as if she were looking for someone. _Was it him?_ he found himself wondering. He took another step out into the open, intending to go to her, when her eyes found his. Again, he found himself believing in fate and coincidence. She gave him a smile, eyes shining, and that was when he realized that _he_ was the reason why she'd stayed. His words. His promises.

When he was about to take another step, Francis appeared before her. He bowed low, said something to her that Sebastian couldn't hear, then offered her his hand. Sebastian could see the apprehension in her face, the hurt from the previous day coming back to her. As she hesitated, she locked eyes on him again. Waiting. Asking him to guide her.

So Sebastian gave her a small smile, both in his eyes and on his face. He let everything he was thinking leak into his stare. _Stay Mary_, he whispered in his mind.

After moment, Mary dropped her stare. She directed her attention to Francis and gave him a half smile, placing her hand in his.

And Sebastian had never seen a queen so beautiful.

* * *

AEN: Hey all, I meant to upload this before last night's episode of Reign, but I ran out of time! The lyrics I have provided in this new chapter is from "From Time", from Drake's newest album, Nothing Was The Same. I hope all you Mash fans enjoyed, there will only be more to come! Remember to review!


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer/Letter from the Author: Over 60 story followers! Of that I am truly grateful. Now if only we could catch up those reviews...

In all honesty, though, the reviews aren't that important. I just want to know that the people reading my story love it just as much as I do. I want to know your thoughts, opinion, likes, and dislikes, because as a writer I take each form as a type of encouragement. It means a lot to know that so many of you are reading this. It makes me very happy. Between the number of people reading my stories on here, and my blog followers, someday I'll have enough web support to became a real, published author. I can't wait for that, and when that day comes it will be because of you guys.

I watched the producer interview which talked about the new episode. In it, Sebastian tells Mary Olivia's first and last name. I have spelled Olivia's last name as it sounded to me, because I could not find anything which gave out the spelling for it. I apologize in advance for its incorrect spelling. If by some happenstance I am able to find the correct spelling before the post of this chapter, however, you will most likely never see this paragraph. If you're reading this now, with that in mind, well...

Also, I hope none of the characters seem OOC. I feel like this chapter may be a little off, but I hope you find that I captured the characters well.

Also, I'm sorry it took me so long, I've been busy, but also trying to write at the same time. I meant to post this before the episode aired, and I failed.

Just for reminder, _Reign_ is not a Marie Meyers work. It is a CW line-up. However _The Petals That Fall _and its originality belong to Marie Meyers. Please ask permission before reuse of any element of this work of fiction.

©Marie Meyers, 2013

* * *

§

"Well, aren't you a sight to behold, Your Grace." Mary turned, her sudden movement sending a slight breeze to rustle against her face. She smiled instantly at Sebastian, who had a twinkle in his eye. "You make a stunning huntress."

"Thank you, Sebastian. I had picked the outfit earlier in the day, before...well. You know." Neither She, Sebastian, nor Francis spoke about Tomas' treachery since it had happened. In fact, after the guards had taken Tomas away, and she had reconciled with Francis, she had returned to her chamber. The moment she was inside the privacy of her quarters, she had leaned against the door, sunk to her knees, and reveled in how much easier she found it to breathe.

Everything was how it was meant to be. She was no longer obligated to Tomas, the traitor within the castle had been caught, and her engagement and obligation to France was still void. Just as before. It was as if nothing had changed.

_Except something had_. A lot of things had changed. Her trusts and alliances for her country might not have changed, but in regards to her mind and heart?

That was a different situation all together.

Simon, the English diplomat (whom had first noticed her strained relationship with Francis), was almost sentenced to death at her hand. The female prostitute whom had stepped forward to accuse him of treachery had been mislead and misinformed, as well as frightened for her well-being, all at Tomas' hand. There was a heavy feeling that kept pressing down on Mary-on her chest, her shoulders, her back-that made walking a bit staggering every time she passed the diplomat. Although they had found the truth and he was not executed, she had almost caused a war between the English with both Scotland and France. She just couldn't shake the feeling of dread, the realization that she almost killed an innocent man.

With Tomas' treachery brought to light, he had been the man sitting in the chair in the center of the dining hall, shackled to its rests, his face scrunched up in venomous hatred. It was he who had been the entertainment for the Michaelmas celebration. He whom many pointed to and whispered at from the safety of their masks. And it was he whose life was to be taken that night, in front of the whole court, for their pleasure; his head King Henry would pick up by the hair on top of it and say, "Look how he has fallen!" and laugh boisterously with his court.

And he who was now already dead.

"You didn't stay long after his beheading," Sebastian said to her, a frown now creasingnhis features. It wasn't an accusation; he wasn't pointing out her duty.

Nonetheless she thought of it as she replied. "I know that as a queen I must be willing, and prepared, to take the lives of Man." She shifted uncomfortably. She was ashamed. "But I hadn't wanted to watch him die. I hadn't expected to see...so much..._pleasure_, on the Court's faces. I had to come out here; I had seen all I needed to see."

There was a pause. Mary turned back around to stare out at the courtyard from the balcony of the castle which they stood. She hoped Sebastian didn't feel slighted, at her disgust for the behaviours of his court. She wished not to make him uneasy.

She felt him move and stand beside her. "I'm sorry you had to witness that. My father is not a blood thirsty man. He was simply giving Court what he knew it would want; a show. Entertainment. Even if that said show and entertainment was the product of spilled blood upon the steps of the platform on which a dead man stood."

She looked at Sebastian from the corner of her eye, and gave him a weak smile. "Tomas' eyes found mine, and he never relinquished my stare, not even when he lost his head. Your father is familiar with his duty to take the lives of those who threatened his people. I wish I had such ease," she admitted softly. "I am under no honor to feel sympathy for the man who killed your men, and almost took both our lives from us. I should have held my head high, and met his stare with pride in the knowledge of his inevitable death." She swallowed. "But I felt pain and remorse, for a man who did not deserve it. If I am to be a queen in right of one country, and of consort another, I need to be strong."

"Mary," Sebastian said to her. "If you could be gleeful that someone, _anyone_, had their life taken, you would be no better than Tomas himself."

She smiled.

"Is that a costume, Sebastian?"

He grinned at her. "I certaintly was not going to be an earth sprite."

Mary laughed, and was awarded with a chuckle.

"Thank you," she told him, the words heavy in their meaning, and she wondered if he knew what all her words held. He didn't answer her, and she knew he had.

They stood together in silence for a few moments, watching the sky. Each lost in their own thoughts and the enjoyment of each other's company. For the first time since she had arrived back at French Court, Mary felt at peace. Safe. Like all the danger was passed, and she wondered if it would last. She dared to hope it would. The sudden sound of a throat clearing brought them both back to the present.

Mary and Sebastian both turned around to the sound. "Francis."

Francis nodded his head slightly, smiling at the both of them. "There you are." He walked up to stand at Mary's other side. "May I have a word with Mary?" he asked his brother, and Mary watched as Sebastian nodded.

"Your Grace," he said to her, as his bid of farewell. When Sebastian was gone, she felt Francis cover her hand with his own.

§

Days passed. After everything that had happened with Tomas, Mary and the French king had come to an agreement. They were to receive Scottish timber, in exchange for supplies for her country. _And men. _In addition, she was also in charge of writing the treaty that would allign their two countries. She finally had say so, just as she'd hoped.

And the days went quickly and peacefully. Mary couldn't remember the last time she wasn't thinking of her life's peril.

Something was amiss in the air, however. At first it had only been hushed whispered from the guards to the king, the king, Francis, and Sebastian always in private counsel with advisors. Mary had no inkling as to what secret affairs were of their concern, and she didn't mind that in the slightest. She felt happy, and she was okay with that.

That all changed when a woman arrived at the castle.

That day, the King was to have a feast. Mary, Sebastian, and Francis had gone to the Court's market, as Mary had never been.

Things were peaceful between she and Francis. The night that Tomas was exectued, they had talked. That was the night that Francis had told Mary that if it were up to him, if they weren't royals, he would follow his heart, and let himself love her with nothing holding him back. Yet, she and he both knew, that despite what his heart wanted, he had to stay level-headed. He had to make the choices and decisions a king would make, for that was the man he would one day be. Just like she, a queen, had to think of her people and duty to her country.

But his admission had warmed her heart. Made her feel as if there was still hope.

They were taking their time with each other, but Mary was sure, that with time, they would love one another. That she would marry for love, and not just for country.

Now, as the three of them looked around the market, laughing, a messenger approached.

They all three turned solemn as the messenger bowed. "Young royals," the messenger greeted, and Mary wondered if the messenger was referring to Sebastian as well. "Young Dauphin. There has been an incident."

Mary shot a glance at Francis, who had her hand in the crook of his arm. She felt his sudden apprehension in the stiffening of his stance, and she squeezed his arm in reassurance.

"What is it? What has happened?" he demanded of the messenger.

"We found a woman running on the perimeter of the woods, Milord," the messenger replied. "She's had quite a fright. Her carriage was over run by bandits and she's asking for you."

Mary looked from Francis to the soldier. A woman? Asking for _Francis_. Just who was she?

And then she saw.

"_Francis!_"

A blonde woman, wearing a light green cloak, ran towards them. Her blue eyes were wild, her wavy hair a messy mop about her head. And she was running to them. _To him. _

"Olivia."

Mary watched as Francis shrugged away from her and ran to the woman. She watched as he and the woman embraced and as he cupped the mysterious woman's face, tucking locks of hair behind her ear, and spoke softly to her; the woman in response clutched his hands with her own.

When the messenger had gone, Mary leaned in towards Sebastian, whom was also watching the scene. "Who is she?" Mary asked, voice low.

"Olivia Demencour," Sebastian replied with a sigh. "She is an Italian noblewoman. Her family lived at French Court, and left shortly before you arrived." He took a sip from the cup he held in his hand.

Mary looked at him. "Broken-hearted?" she asked hesitantly.

Sebastian nodded. "Yes." Then, "He was."

Mary looked back at her fiance and his former lover. She watched their retreating forms, her heart sinking in dismay.

She gave Sebastian a stiff and small smile. "Excuse me," she told him, leaving him by the market table as she made her way out of the market.

As she walked back towards the castle, her thoughts ran wild. Who Olivia was, how long she had been with Francis, what all they must have done together. She thought about she and his stolen kisses under the tree clearing. How experienced his mouth had been against her own and on her skin. _They must have done a lot together. _She felt her cheeks heat with the thought, for those experiences were still so very-explicit-to her mind.

Mary knew Francis had a past. That much was obvious, even to her. But thoughts of him with another woman were just so...unsightly. She suddenly wished that when she had left for the convent all those years ago Francis had gone with her; that way he wouldn't have a _past _at all.

She got to the main hall of the castle and began to climb the widened steps. Her fingers traced the intricate railing, and she focused on the feeling, trying to focus on anything, _anything _other than the newfound knowledge that kept swirling itself within her mind.

Francis' old lover had returned. Of course, Mary rationalized, her carriage had been attacked, and the girl was frightened. She was shaken, had asked for Francis, and Francis had went to calm her. _Calm her. _But, he had left the market with Olivia clutching onto him. Left at her side...and spared Mary not one glance back. _Not one._

Mary saw the door of her chambers and happily threw herself into it, welcoming the privacy and seclusion of her room.

It was probably nothing. After all that she and Francis had recently gone through, and all the moments they had shared-the newfound union and feelings he admitted of wanting to have for her. It was probably nothing. _It was nothing._ Nothing at all.

Olivia Demencour might have been a girl from Francis' past, but it _was _the past. It was only natural, humanely right, for him to aide her now.

Mary straightened her back. Regaining her composer, she walked to her desk, the desk that held the treaty agreement for the alliance between France and Scotland; her _marriage agreement _with Francis.

Everything was fine. She and Francis were just _fine. _She would simply pass the time going over the treaty, as she had been for the last few days, and wait for the current matter within the court to subside. Yes. Exactly. Once Olivia was fine, Francis would come back to Mary. She need only calm her nerves and wait.

§

Francis did not seek her out for the remainder of the night, although she had hoped. In fact, Francis had not sought her out at all. As Mary walked through the castle halls and watched the afternoon sun stream through its windows, Mary couldn't stop the frown that formed on her lips. Francis was nowhere to be seen. However, through the whispers throughout the castle, Mary knew where he had spent his time. Even without the whispers, Mary could have taken a gander.

With that thought in her mind, Mary found herself walking towards Francis' room. She didn't expect him to be there, but she missed him, and she missed his presence. Being near anything that belong to him, anything that could help strengthen her heart by reminding her that he was hers, was better than nothing.

But to her surprise, she saw Francis close his door behind him when his chamber was within her view. He wasn't going in her direction, and he seemed to be in a hurry. Mary faltered for just a moment.

"Francis!" she called out to him.

Francis turned. "Mary..." he said, just as surprised as she. "Hi. Why are you here?"

When she made her way to him, she put her hands on her hips. "Francis. Always asking repetitive questions." She smiled at him softly. "You just disappeared last night."

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry, I-with Olivia's return and her circumstance, I forgot myself. I'm sorry, Mary."

"It's fine, I understand," she assured him. "How is she? Your...friend, Olivia? I've heard talks that she was almost killed. I bet she's frightened."

"She was. Is. She has had quite the fright," Francis replied solemnly. "I was actually about to go get her water."

Mary knit her brows in confusion. "Wait. Where is she?" she asked slowly.

Francis shifted. "In there, presently." He nodded at his door.

"Hasn't a room been made up for her?"

"Yes, of course, Mary," Francis said, like it should be obvious, and Mary bit the inside of her cheek before she could retort. "She came to me in the early hours of the morning. She couldn't sleep. Too many dreams of the events in the woods. I've been comforting her."

_Comforting. _For some reason, Francis telling her he had been comforting Olivia made Mary _very _uncomfortable.

"I see." She shifted, an awkward feeling in the air. "Why not send for a servant to bring the water?"

"I'd rather do it myself. It would put her more at ease."

"What would? The water or you fetching it for her?" As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted it. She knew how she sounded.

Francis' eyes sought hers, and she looked hastily away. Great. Just great. So much for seeming understanding.

"Mary," Francis chastised her. "The poor woman was almost killed! She is in a frightened state of mind right now, and here you are, behaving like a jealous wife because she needing me to reassure her-"

"I will be your wife, someday, Francis," Mary interrupted softly. She hated hearing him chastise her; it made her feel as if she were being ridiculous. Maybe she was. "And she goes to you in her hour of need because of the past that the two of you share!" She met his eyes.

His gaze softened, and he drew her hands in his. "Mary," he said to her. "It is only a past. Things between Olivia and I that _were_...are no longer what are. She is my friend, and a friend who needs me. You know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you-"

"Yes, I know that," Mary sighed, squeezing his hand gently.

He smiled. "I'm going to fetch her water. Tonight, I will see you at the festivities. Alright?"

Mary nodded. Francis gave her one more small smile, before he dropped her hands and went about his way. Mary watched him, unease clawing at her. Sure, he had seemed sincere enough in his testament...

but something about his smile just seemed off.

Mary wondered if she would be able to place it if she thought on it hard enough, then dismissed the idea immediately. She would take his word for it, if only for the simple fact that she didn't really want to know otherwise.

Apart of her wanted to see her. Olivia. She wondered where she was in the room. Was she sitting on a seatee or was she in his bed? Mary wondered if Olivia was lost in memories, walking around Francis' room, retracing every reminiscent detail.

Mary abruptly turned away from the door. Urk. _Stop it, Mary. Stop it. _She swiftly walked back in the direction she came. _It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean anything. _Francis would one day be king. A king different from his father. A king with a kingdom that was _whole_. That wasn't full of secrets, affairs, or lies.

So, so what if Olivia went to see Francis? They were _friends. _Not that type of "friends". They had been though. She meant, not at the moment. No, she meant, not anymor-

Mary fled down the steps and into the main hall, where she turned abruptly and stalked out of the castle and into the courtyard. She just needed a break. She just needed a breather, a little walk to calm her mind.

As she was walking, she kept her eyes straight ahead, not wanting to look down. Not wanting to look as pitiful as she felt. She should have been watching where she was going.

Her foot got caught on something and she lost her balance. Mary cried out, feeling her body fall forward as she landed on top of something warm. Someone warm.

"Mary! Are you alright?" Mary looked over at Sebastian. He had been lounging languidly in the grass, and she had fallen right on top of him. His eyes were wide with concern, but Mary could hear the obvious amusement in his tone; it's not everyday people trip over people.

_Not only that_, Mary thought, _but I'm completely hunched over his form. I probably have my butt out in the air. _

Mary flushed, knowing full well that queens were supposed to be graceful. She quickly scrambled from atop him, and sat back on her legs, folding her hands neatly in her lap, as if she could somehow save face. But the damage was already done, she saw that in the way he struggled not to laugh. A little indignantly, she replied, "It isn't funny, Sebastian. I am quite fine, thank you. I was simply taking a walk."

"More like sleep walking," he uttered, laughter coating his voice. She frowned at him.

"Well, while you're down here, why don't you join me?" he asked her. "That way you can tell me what's wrong."

Mary's frown fell. She looked down at her lap. She felt like she could share her issue with Sebastion. In fact, she wanted to. "Francis and I haven't been speaking since Olivia arrived last afternoon," she said to him.

"Did you two have an argument?"

"Let me rephrase: Francis hasn't been speaking to, or seeing _me _since Olivia arrived last afternoon." Mary fingered the fabric of her dress. "He hasn't let her side."

"Francis is more than likely seeing to her well-being, and nothing more."

Mary smiled at Sebastian's instant defense in regards towards his brother's pride. "I know that. It is probably more than likely that. But..." she sighed. "He saw her, fled to her, fled with her, and now she's going to his room to see him and he's fetching her water-" she trailed off, frustrated. Talking about it just made her frustrated.

"You're jealous."

Mary's head snapped up and she narrowed her eyes. "No, I am not. Why would I be jealous? I know he is simply being the kind hearted person he is."

Sebastian gave her a smirk. "She is a girl from Francis' past. A girl with a romantic tie to him. A girl who happens to show up just when things between you and Francis seem to be improving. A girl whose side he hasn't left since her return. And Mary, you hate it. I can see it in your eyes; that is _jealousy_, Mary."

Mary looked down again. She didn't know what to say, when he put it like that.

"Mary." At the insistence in Sebastian's voice she raised her head to look at him. His gaze was steady on hers. "He has you; why would he look elsewhere?" he said to her softly.

For a second, Mary's heart skipped a bit. The intense look that Sebastian was giving her was hard to look away from. It made her want to just...lay her all before him.

"I am the girl he has been engaged to since he was six," she whispered. "The girl he is being forced to wed. A girl whom has suddenly re-entered his life without warning. A girl who just expected him to love her, like a fool. Sebastian, I represent his politics. Not his heart."

They were words that she had never wanted to speak aloud. Words she had been afraid to say even to herself. She knew, that when the words were uttered, she couldn't pretend they weren't true.

"He may never love me."

The emotions that passed through Sebastian eyes were enough. Too much. Mary looked away. Clearing her throat, she stood. She dust herself off. "Goodbye now, Sebastian. I'll see you later."

Mary ran. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her. She ran back into the castle. Ran towards the main hall, and leapt up the steps. She couldn't get to her door fast enough. She couldn't open it fast enough. Couldn't shut it fast enough. Couldn't do much fast enough, to run away from all the words she'd said.

Mary went to her vanity. She looked at her reflection. Saw the wild, sad eyes that stared back at her. Weak, she sat down. She had come to the French court, not only to do right by her country, but by her heart as well; was this who she wanted to be?

§

The feast was wonderful. Mary had been seated next to Francis, where they had talked from time to time. Olivia, however, was seated next to him. She had preoccupied most of his time. Across from them was Sebastian. Throughout the meal, Mary and he exchanged glances. His eyes told her he worried for her; she wished he wouldn't.

Mary took the time to observe Olivia. How she walked, talked, and laughed. She seemed happy.

It was during her dance with Francis, that Mary brought up the subject. "If she is feeling better, does that mean she is returning to Italy?" she had asked him.

She saw a look pass through Francis' stare, felt him stiffen as they danced.

"No."

"Why not?" she asked him, suddenly angry. "Castles have _guest rooms_ for a reason."

Francis looked away from her.

"Francis?"

"She isn't leaving."

Mary felt herself trip as she fell out of rhythm. She pulled away from him. "Why not?"

He leaned into her and grabbed her hands again. "Mary, don't make a scene," he whispered to her.

Mary looked into his eyes, and saw nothing she could trust. "Did something happen between the two of you?"

She saw Francis' hesitation in his eyes, knew he wad lying before he answered her. "Don't be ridiculous, Mary. Dance with me again. You're making a scene."

_It was nothing. It was nothing. _Honestly. How could she be so naive?

And that was how, for the second time since she had arrived at the castle, Francis had her question her faith in him. She walked out of the dining hall, trying to stay as calm as possible. She needed wine. Need peace. Needed quiet.

She walked to the courtyard, and out towards the lake. She would just sit on her log, and think.

But when she got there, someone already beat her to it.

"How come I keep running into you?" Mary asked Sebastian as she took a seat beside him.

He gave her a grin, "I live here."

"You know what I mean." She stared out at the lake for a second. "You were wrong." She could see Sebastian's head turn in her direction. She didn't turn to look at him. "She is more than just a past." She turned to him then. "I'm not gonna cry. I'm stronger than that. Queens don't cry over boys; but I just wanted something real with Francis, something that wasn't defined by a mistress. Something real, you know? I'm begining to think that there isn't such things with him."

She watched as Sebastian exhaled a breath. He looked down at the canteen in his hand, then passed it to her.

"You probably need this more than I do."

Mary frowned, but she accepted. The liquor hit hard and fast, and left a burn in her throat. She started coughing, and Sebastian grinned.

"I came here to be happy, Sebastian. I came here to do the right thing for my people, and my heart."

"Then do that, Mary. No one is stopping you."

"How?" she took another drink and passed it back to Sebastian. "Francis has his mistress now."

Sebastian's smile faded.

"Mary," he said softly, "I know you want a husband who loves you. Just _you_," he said. "I'm sorry. You deserve better."

"I'm a queen. We don't only get to follow our hearts."

"If Francis can do what's right for his people, but still do that he pleases, why can't you?" Sebastian asked her. "If he can have a mistress, have a sirstress."

Mary felt her mouth drop. And then she was laughing.

She was so surprised by by the sound, that it made her laugh even harder. It was such a good sound. A sound she didn't think she'd hear.

She took the canteen when Sebastian passed it back to her. "A sirstress."

"You know what I mean. Mary, find someone who loves you for you. Someone who would do anything. Someone who can't look away from you. I mean," he looked out at the lake. "I know you're not like that. I know you wanted _everything _to be real, but...maybe you should try to kill two birds with two stones, instead of one. No one would think any less of you. It'd be impossible to, I mean you're-" Sebastian looked at her then, and smiled cheekily. "You're Mary, Queen of Scots."

Mary shook her head, a tingle growing in her stomach. "Queens can't have mistresses."

"I'm not talking about a _mistress_, Mary," Sebastian replied. "I'm talking about a _lover._"

Their eyes locked. Mary found herself drowning. His words swirled in her head. For a moment...

Mary opened her mouth, then snapped it shut.

Sebastian raised a brow. "What is it?"

She certainly couldn't tell him what she almost had. _Be my lover, Sebastian. _The words had been on the tip of her tongue. What was she thinking? Maybe it was the liquor. Yeah. It probably that. Mary swallowed the words before they left her lips. She gave Sebastian a small smile.

"Nothing," she replied. She handed him the canteen. She was just being silly.


	8. Chapter 8

§

Perhaps he had been too bold. Come on, a _sirstress_? That's what he gets for trying to be cute. Men should just save the cute aspect for the women.

Bash rolled onto his side. He couldn't sleep. Despite how much he had to drink. He simply wasn't tired.

No, that wasn't it. What it was, was him thinking about her. About Mary. As soon as his head had hit its pillow and he had tried to empty his mind, she was there. Her eyes. Her lips. Her hair. How she smelled. How much he longed to kiss her. Bash knew that even if he were to sleep in that moment, he'd dream of her beneath him.

He frowned. It didn't bother him, having so much desire for Mary. He wouldn't hide it if she would let him show it to her, he wouldn't make it a secret. To anyone. He wanted her. He craved her. He craved her lips upon his skin, against his own; he yearned to trail his fingers down her body, feeling her soft skin beneath his fingertips.

And oh, the pleasure he would give her. Bash couldn't deny the images his mind had been supplying him for weeks; his body over hers; his mouth kissing her inner thighs; his need pressed between her parted legs; and her gentle sighs. He wanted to make Mary _his _in every way imaginable. And more. There was so much more.

Groaning in frustration, Bash got out of bed. He slipped into his trousers and laced his boots. Grabbing his shirt vest and his sword, he left his chamber, and headed down the hall.

There were no guards posted in front of her door; now that it seemed as if the threats in her life within the kingdom had been abated, Bash guessed that she most likely had no more need for them. He frowned. She was still a queen and a young maiden, and for those reasons alone there should always be someone to guard her while she slept.

Of course, Bash couldn't deny that he was glad that they weren't there. For if they had been, he doubted he'd be able to see her.

It wasn't his first time happening upon the Scottish queen's door. When she had first arrived to French Court, it had been seldom; once or twice, here or there, simply because her presence eased him out from harsh contemplations. Yet gradually, his visits to Her Grace's chambers had increased, and lately it had been most frequent.

He did what he always did; stood in front of her door for a moment, and tried to tell himself to turn away. That he was only harming himself. And like every other time, he prepared himself. Wanting to feel the singe from putting his hand to close to the flame; welcoming it every time.

He pushed open her door as quietly as possible. As always the door made a small creak, but it was a sound never loud enough to wake his sleeping beauty. Bash shut the door swiftly but gently. The door made a soft click, and Bash turned on his heels, his eyes instantly finding her form.

He had found she looked even more beautiful when she slept. Tonight, she wore a deep purple night gown that looked striking against her alabaster skin. Her hair was sprawled against her pillows, haphazard from her tossing and turning, her hands resting on either side of her head. Her face was tilt in his direction, her plump lips parted as she snored softly; Bash's breath hitched. She was beautiful. Gorgeous. _Desirable. _

He wanted her all to himself.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Slowly, he leaned over her, staring at her, memorizing her. Bash brought his hand up to carress her cheek, and his breathing labored at the tingle that spread throughout him when his fingertips skimmed her skin.

"_You are so beautiful, Mary_," Bash whispered. "_If only I could be yours_."

Slowly he withdrew his hand from her cheek. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't stay long. Not that night. He had things he had to contemplate.

He left her room just as quietly as when he had opened it. Bash made his way down the castle steps, and walked down the hall, towards the door of the courtyard. He needed his horse.

That next night there was to be a feast. He couldn't stay out for too much longer if he wanted to be presentable. He rode his horse out of the stable and towards the direction of the Blood Woods.

He tread lightly. Carefully. He clutched his sword's hilt as he made his way to the spot where he and the guards had cut down the humans intended for the vagrants' sacrifice.

He stared up at the trees, remembering his predicament, and slightly wished that he had left the bodies where they had been.

"_You owe us a debt, Sebastian_." It was a whisper in the wind. Bash whipped his head around, searching for the boy, but could not see him. _"See to it that you pay it. Lest someone you love die." _

Bash clenched jaw as his eyes narrowed in anger. Then he pulled on the reins of horse. He didn't need a reminder of the dire situation he was in.

§

He hadn't gotten much sleep. When he had returned to his room, he had been restless. On edge. Lying in bed, a jittery mess, he wanted nothing more than to stroll down the hall. And when he had slept, he had nightmares. Awful ones in which someone he loved ended up above a bed of white flower petals; hung and bound, with a knife wound stretching across their neck-drops of blood dribbling down their chin and splattering against the floral.

The castle had been mostly quiet; he hadn't seen Francis, Olivia, or even Mary, though he had nonchalantly searched for her. Bash had wondered where his younger brother was, and with which girl; something told him it wasn't Mary, and the thought calmed him but angered him at the same time.

That night the whole French Court was dining. The feast started as the sun began to set. Bash made his way to the dining hall as leisurely as possible; he wished he didn't have go. He didn't mind being the one not included in things. He didn't mind one bit.

When he had made it to the Royal table-because that was were princes, princesses, kings, queens, and their companions sat-he noticed that he ended up there before Francis, Olivia, and Mary. Again, not seeing them put a weird feeling in Bash's stomach. What were the odds of such a thing?

His suspicions only grew when moments later, Francis appeared with Olivia Demencour in tow. Now the only one absent was Mary. When she showed up a few minutes later, Bash shot her a glance, but wasn't graced with one in return; in fact, she wasn't paying attention to anything.

She took her seat beside Francis, eyes downcast towards the table. Bash raised a brow and gave his brother a look; he watched as Francis and Olivia exchanged glances; Olivia smiled knowingly, and Sebastian cringed.

He always thought there was something not to trust beneath her smile.

As usual, dinner was delicious. Bash sat, hands clasped together, as he watched Francis, Mary, and some nobleman engaged in conversation. He felt himself smile when they brought up the convent.

"Oh, it was quite nice; I learned how to milk cows."

"Well! Maybe that's what the court needs; a woman who can tend the animals!" the nobleman said to Francis, laughing.

Bash studied the queen's expression. He didn't know what it was, but there was something there.

And he didnt like it.

"Yes, well. She will be my future wife. I think it will do the Kingdom some good, to have someone so down to earth in it." Francis reached for Mary's hand.

Abruptly, she stood, startling the other guests into silence. Bash stared at Mary, at her tense form, surprised. She kept her head down, her hands curled into two fists as she moved herself away from Francis and his touch.

"Mary? What is it?" Francis asked her.

"I'm not feeling well," she replied. "I think I must retire now. Please excuse me, everyone. I apologize." Bash frowned. There was something not right about her. Something in her voice, an odd, strangled sound. He watched as she left the dining hall on pretence of going to her "chambers". When she turned out of the hall, Bash stood and discreetly excused himself as well.

She was lying.

Bash followed her at a safe distance as she made her way out the castle and to the Lakeside. She was walking hastily; but when she came to the log that overlooked the water, she stopped, staring. When he was within a reasonable distance, he spoke.

"Why did you leave the dining hall?"

"Bash. Why are you always so concerned? Can't you, can't someone, just stop caring for me for just a moment?"

She had said his name as if it were sting upon her tongue.

"Mary," Bash said, eyes narrowing.

"Mary, Mary, Mary. My name seems to pass through everyone's lips, when it is most convenient to them, but never the moment I need them to say it." Mary turned to him, and Bash felt his heart stop at the emotions he saw in her eyes. "Don't worry about it. Just go back inside, Sebastian."

Anger. Betrayal. Disgust. Despair. So many emotions stretched across her features, molding with her skin as if her eyes had never before known happiness. He took a step towards her and outstretched his hand. "Mary-" he lightly touched her arm.

Mary smacked his hand away, taking a step away from him. "Don't touch me!" she hissed.

Bash's eyes widened. "Mary. What is going on?"

She dropped her head again. "Nothing. _Nothing_. Just leave. Me. Alone."

He could have. He should have. She was a queen, and as a queen, to give someone a command, that meant it was to be followed. Or at least respected, when in another's court. She wanted to be alone, and he could have most certainly granted her that pardon.

But he wouldn't. Couldn't. Bash had promised her she was never going to be alone again.

He refused to leave her like that.

And that was when Bash told her no, and grabbed hold of both her wrists. Stepping up to her and pulling her body a hair away from his, he shook her lightly. "Mary, what is wrong with you?" he demanded of her.

"That's an excellent question. What _is_ _wrong_ with me, Sebastian? Am I not beautiful? Is my heart not good enough?" Her voice was barely a whisper, "Am I not good enough to love?"

She lifted her head again, the sorrow in her eyes freezing Bash where he stood.

And that was when he felt Mary's lips against his own.

Surprise kept him from reacting. Shivers raked their way across his skin as she pressed her lips firmly against his own. What was going on? What was she doing? Why-

He felt a liquid warmth pass onto his cheeks. It slid down them, and drippled down his chin.

Mary was crying.

He took a step back to create a distance between them, but Mary took a step forward to match him, and tried to claim his lips again. With Bash's grip on her wrists, he pulled her back.

"Mary. What are you _doing_?" He took in the tears that were sliding down her cheeks. She gave him a wide-eyed stare, her parted lips closing into a sad smile.

"I was making you my lover; I-"

Bash scrunched his eyebrows. "What?" He said incredulously.

"I thought, maybe you-"

"Mary, listen to me. Why-"

"Do you not want me, either?" she suddenly blurted.

And that was when he understood.

"I mean, Francis..._Francis_." Mary drew a hand to her hair. "He has Olivia. In every way he'll ever want her. _Every way_. I assume that means that there is obviously something I'm lacking; I don't have blonde hair, or her light colored eyes, or an Italian accent, so I am obviously at a disadvantage. It's just that you were right. If he can have someone to love him, and it need not be I, then I can most certainly behave in the similar fashion. I mean, that isn't incorrect thinking, is it?"

She was blathering; her words rushed and pained. Broken. Bash clenched his jaw.

"Mary, what did you see?" he asked her softly. He took a step back in her direction.

Her eyes flickered to the ground. "All that I once wanted, but now no longer. All that I shall never have."

And then everything left her; her tears, her pain, her strength. As her legs gave out, Bash pulled her to him, holding up her weight as he slowly made his way on to his knees si he could more properly cradle her.

"Mary," he whispered to her. He had been troubled by her pain in the past, but now he felt nothing but despair. For the woman whom he admired. The woman who'd been scorned.

"I don't feel anything. Not even your arms around me. I feel nothing." She met his gaze. "I shall never be truly loved by anyone, Sebastian. Never."

He wrapped his arms more securely around her, all pretences abandoned. All titles non-existent. "Come now. That isn't true."

"I am a queen. I must marry for country. I represent power. To marry me is to simply claim a prize."

He wanted to animatedly argue against that. But he knew he couldn't entirely do it.

So he said the only thing he could. He told her he was sorry.

Mary shook her head. "What have you done but always be here, Bash?" she said. "I just wanted someone's love. I wanted it to mean something. I wanted it to be Fra-" she stopped herself. "It wasn't him. It wasn't _anyone_, and now I feel nothing but this terrible, aching pain; this painful burn in my chest. I just want it to go away. I want to forget everything. I feel like such a fool now, and I only wish that would change."

Bash wouldn't press her for details. He knew she wouldn't give him any, knew that they would be details she wouldn't wouldn't even be telling herself. He drew his hand through her hair, stroking it gently. Mary closed her eyes the moment his fingers dug themselves into her tresses. Bash watched as a single tear escaped from the corner of her eye.

"I want to forget this feeling. I want to cast it away. I want to feel _wanted_."

"But you are, Mary," he argued. "You are."

"Will you prove it to me?" Bash stilled his hand, and Mary met his gaze. "Will you make me feel wanted?"

Bash's throat felt tight. Never did he expect that to happen, even though he'd been waiting for her to say those words for a very long time; but she was hurting. He couldn't pretend she wasn't just for his selfishness. "Mary-"

"Bash. Please, take these feelings away. They hurt so bad. Take them _all_ away."

He would do anything. _Anything_ for her to feel happiness. He would love nothing more than to take away her pain. Every last bit of it; strip her mind and heart of all treachery to enable her to feel nothing but elation for her whole life. Bash felt himself becoming overwhelmed with emotion. Emotion for her.

Maybe that was why his eyes flickered to her lips a moment. His gaze lingered, and he swallowed against the desire he felt rising within him. Bash met Mary's eyes once more, and she spoke again.

"_Sebastian_."

His name had been permission. His name had been her plea.

Bash groaned low in his throat, conceding the battle. _I would have never told her no anyway_, he thought, as he dipped his face low. He captured her lips with his own.

It occurred to him then; it wasn't her title that brought danger in her wake. It was her laugh. The way her eyes twinkled under starlight. How soft her long tresses felt against his hand. How soft her lips were to kiss; it was her.

* * *

AEN: Hey guys! So what do you think? I think it's going pretty good. I think, this is where some elements of the story will begin to differentiate from the series. I'm excited to see how it develops myself.

I have been waiting weeks to write this scene. I'm glad it finally happened. I just had to build up to the moment. In fact, the song I was listening to when I wrote this was "What You Know" by Two Door Cinema Club. The lyrics reminded me of the situation I was writing perfectly.

**"What You Know"**

_In a few weeks I will get time_

_To realize it's right before my eyes_

_And I can take it if it's what I want to do_

_I am leaving, this is starting to feel like_

_It's right before my eyes_

_And I can taste it, it's my sweet beginning_

_And I can tell just what you want_

_You don't want to be alone_

_You don't want to be alone_

_And I can't say it's what you know_

_But you've known it the whole time,_

_Yeah, you've known it the whole time_

_Maybe next year I'll have no time_

_To think about the questions to address_

_Am I the one to try to stop the fire?_

_I wouldn't test you__, _

_I'm not the best you could have attained_

_Why try anything?_

_I will get there, just remember I know_

_And I can tell just what you want_

_You don't want to be alone_

_You don't want to be alone_

_And I can't say it's what you know_

_But you've known it the whole time_

_Yeah, you've known it the whole time_

_And I can tell just what you want_

_You don't want to be alone_

_You don't want to be alone_

_And I can't say it's what you know_

_But you've known it the whole time_

_Yeah, you've known it the whole time_

_And I can tell just what you want_

_You don't want to be alone_

_You don't want to be alone_

_And I can't say it's what you know_

_But you've known it the whole time_

_Yeah, you've known it the whole time_

I found the chorus very fitting.

You guys, readers, supporters, have done so much for me, and I thank you so much. Liking my story enough to read it, says a lot. So as thanks, I wrote another Mash fic the other day called _Inevitable_. Be sure to check out the tribute!

I also have a Twitter! It's ** meyermariea**. It'd be great to be followed by some of you, and I'd most definitely return the favor!

Please remember to review!


	9. Chapter 9

§

_Hold it in, child._

_Because you are too beautiful to cry._

_Your eyes glistening–_

_that start of salt droplets_

_sliding down your cheek._

_Wait just a moment;_

_remember that there is good in your life,_

_and even though the world is filled with bad,_

_there is still a light that shines down on you._

_God, your Father, has not left you_

_in the darkness._

_And though it seems that your life_

_has only been filled with pain,_

_someone still_

_loves_

_those moments when your_

_eyes light up,_

_and your face shines._

Mary squinted against the harsh light of the sun as she opened her eyes. Light streamed from between the fabric of her curtains, and Mary groaned in protest, her mind foggy.

When the fog cleared, she whirled with widened eyes. She looked around her chambers. Sh was alone, the spot on the bed beside her creased, but vacant. Her right hand flew to her mouth, fingers caressing her lips. She was still in the dress she had worn the night before. Memories flooding back to her, she could not stop the flush from spreading across her cheeks, as she recalled her previous actions. She immediately looked down at the front lace on her bosom, surprised to find the strings retied, albeit messily. The notion and realization was not lost to her, and she felt her stomach flutter with tenderness at his actions, but guilt in regards towards her own, for she had not been nearly as noble as he.

_Mary held her breath and watched as Bash bent his head to hers. His lips hovered over her own for a brief moment (so brief, that it would have been otherwise imperceptible), before she felt them lightly on her own. She tilted her head into the kiss, angry with his reluctance. Was she that undesirable? Perhaps he longed to join his younger brother in his romantic pursuits. Was that what brothers did; ran trains on trollops alongside one another? _

_She wanted Bash to kiss her. __**Kiss her,**__**damn it**__. Mark her and claim her, just as Francis had with Olivia; make __**her**__ feel wanted and desired. _

_Angrily, Mary reached up and intertwined her fingers, arms secured 'round Bash's neck. Pulling down, she pressed his face closer to her own until she felt the light press of his forehead on her skin. She then moved her mouth under his, making the kiss hard; __**making it real. **__Bash made a small sound-protest, maybe? Surprise? -and Mary felt his grip around her tighten as matched her pace a moment. She felt his hands shift-his left hand wrapping itself more securely around her frame as his right moved from her side to her collar, where it gently pushed her back. With his lips momentarily off hers, Mary could her his heavy gasps that contrasted with her easy breathing. His blue eyes were wide and slightly unfocused; his dark, shaggy hair spilling over his forehead. _

_"Easy, Mary," he said to her, his voice rough, lacking its usual strength. "We are in no hurry. There is no need to force yourself upon me." He wasn't being brash; his words were a gentle prod, barely a chastise, she knew, but it flared up something within her, an instant fire. She could feel her body stiffening. _

_"What are you saying? Of course there is a __**need**__," she found herself spitting at him, "I asked you to kiss me, and you're giving me a...firm brush of your lips, and nothing more. I can feel your reluctance to press our lips to one another's, Sebastian-" her eyes narrowed. "If you find me unpleasant-"_

_"That isn't it, Mary," Bash protested. "I was kissing you; however...his blue gaze searched her own, "I am trying to think of your feelings, and your benefit."_

_"Sebastian, I want you to kiss me. Not treat me as a child, but-as a woman!" Mary exclaimed. "As someone that you could desire, someone-" here, she could feel her fears clawing at the surface, replacing her anger and indignation; perhaps he __**didn't**__ wish to claim her in that fashion at all. She felt her resolve wavering, "-unless towards me, you find me to be...lacking...I mean, I-"_

_The gentle brush of Bash's forehead as it came to rest upon hers again, distracted her from her train of thought, as did the feeling of Bash's right hand as it moved from her chest and gently cupped her right wrist; but what really made her suck in a breath, was the heavy gaze she found herself meeting, impossibly bright, blue orbs at stares into hers with such an intensity that she found herself struggling to breathe, feeling as if she were being crushed by its weight. Her throat felt dry. Mary swallowed audibly, her breath hitching as she watched Bash's eyes fly to her throat, then noticeably darken when they returned to her stare. _

_"There is __**nothing **__lacking about you, Mary. This I can assure." She watched his eyes wander down her frame, and she squirmed. There was something in his gaze, in the way it lingered on parts of her skin, leaving it stinging. Something in his voice, which was low and crass as he spoke. She felt a tingling sensation in her stomach; could practically hear her heart hammering in her chest. Bash tilted his head slightly, touching his lips to hers, but he did not kiss her; merely brushed his lips once against her own before sliding his bottom lip against hers slowly. The feeling intensified the flutter in her stomach, sent it travelling downwards, and Mary gasped and squirmed against the suddenly overwhelming feeling, eyes wide at Bash as he watched her, his breathing becoming laboured. _

_The Bash that was now before her was different than the one who had followed her out onto the courtyard and different than the one she constantly confided into during the light of day. This Bash seemed darker, more dangerous-more __**everything**__. His lips pressed against her own again, the same actions repeated, the intense tingle in her stomach now more intense than it had been previously, and she whimpered, amazed that the feeling could be more intensified at all. It made her squirm against him yet again and press her thighs together, her breathing ragged, and her body searching for something she knew not of. _

_She opened her mouth, not knowing what she would say but just that she needed to say something; his name escaped her lips as her hands tightened around his neck. _

_"Bash!" she cried out. She had no idea what she was saying to him, or asking of him, but she hoped he did. "I-"_

_She heard him growl, felt it as a rumble in his chest, and pressed her thighs together with more force. A movement he noticed, if the intake of breath was any indication. Again, he brought his lips to hers. _

_"Nothing lacking. Nothing," he said softly. _

_And then he was kissing her, in a way she had never been kissed before. Even when she and Francis had kissed under the trees, she hadn't felt what she was feeling right then. _

_He wasn't kissing her softly as he had been initially. He wasn't reluctant, nor was he hesitant; there was nothing apprehensive in the way his mouth claimed hers. His lips brushed hers firmly and passionately, his right hand pulling her closer to him as he pressed his face more into hers. _

_She couldn't breathe, she couldn't think-she could only feel him, his arms around her, his mouth against hers; his tongue sliding into the opening of her parted lips to massage her own, drawing high pitch sounds from her throat that she was not used to hearing. It all only seemed to encourage him, spur him on to continue his assault as he went about possessing her; taking all of her, milking her for all that she had. _

_Mary was not the only one affected. Each time Bash groaned, he kissed her even harder. More desperately. Her fingers flew to his hair, as she tilted her head to meet each action with just as much fervour; and each time she tugged his hair she was awarded with a throaty sound. _

_She couldn't remember if she had ever been kissed like that, prior to that moment. She couldn't remember, well...anything. _

_But she made herself focus for a moment. Made herself breathe. Mary focused on the way Bash's mouth moved against her own, the way he stroked his tongue on the inside of her mouth; how he nibbled. In a sudden burst of confidence, Mary drew Bash's bottom lip in between her teeth, and bit down softly. _

_Bash groaned loudly, pulling away. He moved her hands from his neck with haste, and Mary whimpered in confusion. He then used the arm around her waist to sit her upright on him. He placed both hands on her waist and moved her into a position to straddle him, letting out a soft sigh of approval as his lips crashed against hers again. It made Mary moan, her hands flying back to tangle in his hair. Even with themselves locked in an embrace so passionate, she needed something else. Wanted more. Without thinking, she squirmed on his lap, and gasped when she noticed something firmly pressed against her. _

_He gasped as well, at her squirming, pulling back. "Heaven help me, Mary," he panted. _

_"Bash," she stammered, "you-I mean, is that-are you-" she felt her cheeks flush. _

_"Yes, Mary," Bash answered without hesitation. His lips found hers again, and suddenly she was falling, Bash pushing her gently towards the grass as he covered her body with his. His hands moved from her hips, and his mouth moved from hers, as his hands slipped beneath her dress skirts, and his mouth moved to her neck. Aside from his lips, no other part of him had any contact with her bare skin. His hands rubbed circles on her skin through her slip, his indirect touch still scorching her skin. _

_With his mouth on her neck, nothing kept her whimpers quiet. When he bit her, she moaned. When he sucked at her skin, she thought she was going to die. Her hands tugged at his hair desperately as he continued to speak. _

_"I am...very respondent towards you. Especially now."_

_And then, as if his touch and words hadn't been enough, he gently parted her thighs and bent her knees, and rolled his hips against hers. _

_Her eyes widened, and she gasped. His-__**that!-**__-pressing against-__**oh, heaven**__. She felt her body arch, as the scorching flutters inside her continued. It was all so much. It all felt too much. And she wanted more of it. _

_"More," she cried, her mind a haze, her breathing ragged. _

_So much more._

_He rolled his hips into hers again, a moan escaping both her lips and his at the friction. _

_Never, never had she felt so..._

_**Claimed**__ before. _

_"Bash," she said breathlessly. "Please. Bash. Please." _

_He groaned, his body rocking into hers, a pleasurable pattern for them both. His mouth bit and suckled on her neck, and his hands roamed her curves on top the slip, and for a moment she wished she hadn't worn it. She was so...caught in him. Trapped, helpless, and wanting. _

_Wanting everything and more. Maybe that was why she rolled her hips into his, reciprocating his actions. _

_Bash hissed. He broke away from her, raising hid body far enough off her that their intimate places didn't touch, and Mary cried out against the sudden loss of contact. No, no, no. She needed something. Her body was on fire, engulfed in flames which he created. He couldn't pull away. Not yet. Not until the flames died down, and the scorching heat inside her disappeared. _

_"Bash? Why did you stop? I-I-"_

_"I know." He placed his forehead against hers. It was donned with sweat, and Mary couldn't help but wonder why. What was he straining so hard to do? "I know, Mary." Which was good, because she didn't. He gave a hoarse laugh, his voice shaky as he tried to draw in a breath. "But you can't...it's already hard enough to not...I mean, __**heavens**__, Mary-you are-oh, may God grant me pardon; it's already hard enough not to claim all of you. You can't reciprocate and rock against me; I won't be able to maintain control. I've already lost it. It's only a thread by which I'm hanging on."_

_His eyes were closed, but when he opened them, Mary saw so much tenderness. It only increased the flames that burned her, but in a different way, altering them into blue fire, instead of red. _

_He placed a chaste kiss on her lips. "The look you're giving me, I'm afraid I've put you in a sort of way. Perhaps we will do something about that a different time." He began pulling away from her, and she panicked. _

_"Bash!" she stuttered, "I-wait; I-"_

_"Mary." His hand tenderly cupped her cheek. "You are breath taking; has anyone ever told you that?" He smiled, and slowly got to his feet. He held out his hand. _

_"Milady?" he asked softly._

He had not defiled her. Had not compromised her. Even though she had all but begged it of him. Even after their first ministrations, she seemed to not be able to quench the unrelenting need that clawed at her, and she thought about how she had pressed her lips to his and begged him to lie beside her, where she had tried to take matters into her own hands. She remembered her fingers working at her bodice, trying to sway him, and how he had pinned her beneath him, begging her to understand, asking if could simply hold her, and nothing more.

Whispers of sweet things sounded in the corners of her mind, and she smiled sadly.

What had she done?

Standing, she discarded her dress, and went to her trunk to fetch herself a different one. Maybe a dark blue dress would be nice, with long sleeves and lace. She tried to tell herself that it had nothing to do with the dark shade she saw in Bash's eyes the night before.

She walked to her vanity. Grabbing her brush she sat, and began detangling her hair, noticing a mark on her neck that had not been there before. She squinted at it in the mirror, and prodded at it carefully. It stung a bit, the bite mark slightly swollen. She flushed noticeably, then continued to brush her hair, albeit shakily. Beside her laid a small black scarf. When she had finished brushing her hair, she tied the scarf in a small bow around her neck.

She left her room, and walked down the steps of the main hall. She went down the right corridor, towards the dining hall, but stopped to look out at the courtyard through one of the windows, remembering.

And then, as if on cue she saw him. Bash, today dressed all in black, his presence announced to her by the sound of his boots against the castle cobblestone. She took all of him in-from the boots upward, until she met his eyes. She felt a jolt of fear in it, the post-embrace encounter. It filled her with uncertainty. Uncertainty that she had been feeling all that morn.

What they had done was unacceptable. It wasn't allowed, and it wasn't alright. They had both betrayed Francis; Bash was Francis' **brother**, for goodness' sake!

And how she had just threw herself at him. It was shameful. Not very queen-like at all.

But despite these things she kept telling herself, Mary's desire for his touch hadn't subsided. It was not as strong as it had been the night before, but she could feel it stirring inside of her, responding to mere thoughts of him. And now, his close proximity. She suddenly found herself confused, and rattled. What was going on within her head?

Bash's face was tense, his eyes cold as they met hers. He didn't stop to speak with her as he passed her. Didn't acknowledge her at all.

Mary felt her stomach sink. She was crestfallen. She whirled around, watching his form as he walked towards the dining hall. Her mind replayed the events of the night prior all over again.

Mary shook herself back to reality, wondering who exactly Bash saw now when he looked at her.

§

When Bash had laid his head on his pillow the night before, he expected to have good dreams. He expected to dream about the girl he admired, about her lips against his own and her whimpers when he touched her.

Just..._wow_. He could hardly believe any of it had happened. He could honestly not believe it. Her lips fully against his own; her body trembling beneath his-and when she bit his lip, and rolled her hips into his own; _heaven help him_. It took all the strength he had not to claim her, make her his, and God knew how badly he had wanted to. It had surprised even himself, when he had pulled away.

But he knew Mary had been hurting. Knew she was looking for someone to take away the pain, and that, was the only reason he held back. Sure, impropriety was important to avoid in her position, and sure-she _was_ very naive, but the main reason he had said no, was because Mary deserved more than some Bastard taking her chasity because he couldn't control his desire.

But man alive, to deny that he wanted all of her was something he could not do.

He closed his eyes, body sinking into the softness of his bed, his mind slipping to pleasurable memories, and even better fantasies; fantasies in which a raven haired, brown-eyed girl whispered she were his and his alone.

And then darkness. Nothing. Just his mind thrown into endless darkness. A darkness that was suffocating him; terrorizing his soul.

Bash woke up with a jolt. His vision was blurry; he found it hard to breathe. He could hear his heart thundering in his ears, and willed himself to calm down. Calm _down_. _Everything was okay_.

"I don't know about all that, Sebastian. I wouldn't be so quick to assume things if I were you."

Bash stilled, his hazy vision clearing as the boy leaned over him. "My, oh my. What a _covetous_ man you are. I wonder what Francis would do if he found out those little secrets of yours, Bastard Born."

Immediately Bash tried to reach for his sword, which wasn't too far from him. He meant to reach out his arm, but he found he couldn't move. He couldn't speak. Bash stared up into the fathomless eyes of the young heretic angrily. Forcefully.

"I didn't mean to take your dreams away. I was just...curious as to what you were dreaming of that made you look so peaceful; now I know. She _is_ rather lovely."

_If you touch her, I'll kill you_, Bash wanted to yell. _I swear by the Heavens, I will see you slain. _

The boy laughed. "Even if you killed me, it would not keep her from her fate." Surprised, Bash's eyes widened. The heretic could read his mind...?

He narrowed his eyes.

Good.

The boy gave him a grin. "Speaking of slaying, Sebastian, the clock is ticking. You desecrated our rituals one time too many. It is time for you to atone."

_And how am I supposed to do that?_

"Find someone in the woods to kill. Then bind them, slit their throat, and watch them bleed; that way balance is restored."

_What?_ If Bash could of shook his head, he would have. No way. _No way_.

"You have no other option," the boy said. "We Pagans are one. We hear each other's every thought if we so wish it; and we share every desire. Making all desires come true. Tell me, Bash. Is there anything-anything at all-that you wish to claim for yourself?"

_Mary_. The thought came unbidden in his mind, and Bash cursed himself as he saw the twisted grin form on the heretic's face. "Our desires are one. You want her, _we_ want her."

_Bullshit_.

"On the contrary; is it not your mother's blood which flows within you as well?"

_I have never been one of you. I have never been apart of your ways_.

"But _we_ have been a part of _you_, Sebastian. We have been a part of _your_ ways. Always watching, and always seeing every corner of your heart. And do you know what we've found there? We've found _her_."

_No!_ Bash yelled in his mind. _No!_

"_We_ could give her to you, you know. That desire-that feral want to possess all of her-we could shift it in your favor; and watch as she gave you her all." The boy sat beside him on the bed. "And we can also take her from you. Take her for ourselves; with her feet suspended towards the sky and her-"_beautiful_"-brown eyes lifeless."

_If you hurt her, I will kill you. I swear it. I will kill you with my own hands. _

If only he could move. If only Bash could reach his sword. He would silence that heretic once and for all.

The heretic stood. "She is Chosen, Sebastian," the heretic told him quietly. "If you don't find someone to sacrifice, we shall choose for you. And if you do not take a life, hers will be ours." Bash watched as the boy walked towards his window. The short haired boy opened it, then turned back to him.

_I am not like the rest of you. Your ways don't flow within me. I am my own master_.

"Sebastian, we live in a world where we bow down to Kings and Queens. _No one is their own master_. And being Bastard born, being an outsider, even if you could control your destiny, they would never let you. You have no destiny that you can mold your own." Bash's eyes widened when the boy drew a small knife from his pocket, and held it to his throat.

"No aspect for you to mold, except for this one." And with that, Bash watched in horror as the boy drew the blade across his skin. He cried out, the power that had been held over him seeming gone, and the boy graced him with one last smile.

"Save the girl you admire, or we will claim her life," the boy whispered.

And then he watched the boy fall.

§

The boy felt like he were flying. It didn't matter if it were in reverse.

Although he was dying, he could still see. He could see everything. He felt laughter rise in his throat.

So that was it then. Throughout his whole life, he had existed for a singular purpose: to give his life to the service of their God. He had been taught to always be prepared for death...

yet at the same time, he never thought he'd die that way. But in his Faith, and his religion, life and blood were always a sacrifice.

He wanted to enjoy his final seconds. He wondered what it must be like, living day-to-day within the world, when one knows nothing of what lurks all around them. Is the darkness beautiful? Did it shine on their faces in the same fashion as the sun? Was it warm, was it wonderful-being in an ignorant bliss?

Now that he were dying, it was okay to say that he wished to be in the light, just once, wasn't it? If he were to say he was afraid, it wouldn't be disgraceful, right?

Just for a moment, he wanted to see the ignorance that those people felt; wanted to feel it. The boy closed his eyes. Images from Sebastian de Poitiers'' mind filled his skull; Sebastian's emotions. Sebastian's feelings. They consumed the boy in a fire he had never felt before, and he laughed, the rising laughter bursting through his lips. So that was what it felt like.

§

Francis woke up with a start, sweat donning his forehead. He gripped his sheets, feeling the smooth fabric beneath his fingertips, reminding himself that he was in reality now.

The same dream. The same nightmare.

There was blood everywhere. He was in the throne room, standing tall in the center of the room; and all around him, everyone was dead.

Their blood was a river at his feet, blood splashing up unto his boots as he walked, sword in hand.

He looked around him. The bodies were everywhere, fallen at his feet. He scanned them, searching for someone.

For _her_.

And then gasps.

Francis whirled around. Sitting on the thrones were Mary and Olivia. Each with swords in their stomachs. Each with hands outstretched towards him. For him.

His eyes would widen, and he'd take a step in one their directions; but each time he stepped towards one, the path to the other crumbled at his feet, and disappeared.

So he would stand there, stuck between a rock and a hard place. And when he tried to keep himself centered to walk to them both, the ceiling crumbled above them.

Francis inhaled deeply. It was just a dream. Yes, that was all it was.

§

He walked with purpose, his heart plagued as he went in search for his fiance. He had done a terrible discretion against her. He had claimed Olivia for his own.

Things were already strained between them because of the kiss. The kiss he had lied to her about. The lie she hadn't been fooled by. He had barely seen her. She had barely spoken to him.

He had meant to make things right. For Mary. For him.

He had requested an audience with Olivia to tell her she couldn't stay after all.

"Francis!" she had smiled at him as she opened the door wider for him to step through. "How good to see you."

Francis had stepped into the room but stayed by the entry way. He'd put his hands behind his back, face blank.

Olivia took in his form, and her smile turned into a frown. "This is about the kiss, isn't it?" she had said to him quietly.

Something had lighted inside him. He felt himself softening to her voice, an instant desire to make her smile. He willed himself to come to his senses. What they had was over.

"I'm sorry, Olivia, but you simply cannot stay here."

"You said that I could."

"That was before..." he'd trailed off. Before he had hurt Mary.

He cared for her...a lot. So much that-

"She may even be more than enough to move on from you." Francis startled. He'd not meant to say it out loud. He watched Olivia's head snap up to his. Saw her glistening eyes.

"What if you don't have to?" Francis shook his head. "Francis-" she took a step towards him.

"I have to. I have to, Olivia! I am a ruler. One day I shall be king, and Mary is-"

The most beautiful queen he had ever seen.

"You once told me I would be your Queen. Do you not remember?" Olivia took another step towards him. She reached out her hands and grasped the fabric of his jacket. "You promised to love me."

Flashbacks assaulted him. Of a time that was so long ago.

"I am promised to wed Mary," Francis said to her. His voice cracked. Her touch was igniting within him a fire that he had forgotten, and feelings that were different than the fluttery emotion Mary was beginning to make him feel. Olivia's touch brought back all the hurt. All the pain that his position would forever bring him.

"But you promised your heart to _me_!" Olivia cried. Though she didn't need to. He knew that, damn it. Especially now. "Francis-"

Something came over him then. Something took over his heart. All the hurt. All the pain. All his anger. His hands reached for Olivia as he cupped her face and brought his lips crashing on hers.

Olivia let out a soft moan, and Francis, overwhelmed by the pain in his heart, lifted her up, and had carried her to bed.

He had realized it was a mistake as soon as it was over. He dressed clumsily, not bothering to say good-bye as he left her chambers. He hadn't meant that to happen. He hadn't meant to bed Olivia at all.

So why did he? He stopped walking and paused in the hall. He had ran a shaking hand through his hair. _Why?_

"Francis?" Olivia had called out. He had turned to look back at her. "You will escort me to the dining hall tonight, won't you?"

He had sighed. There wasn't much he could do at that moment but nod.

The guilt had ate up at him then, and it ate at him still. He didn't want to tell Mary. He didn't want to explain it, because he didn't understand it himself.

But he never wanted to hurt her.

As he walked down the corridor towards the dining hall Francis saw her, looking out a window. He increased his pace. "Mary," he called out.

Mary looked over at him, eyes widening. Her hand flew to her neck and she turned abruptly. _Not again_. He jogged up to her, grabbing her arm.

"Francis, I-"

"Mary, I'm sorry, I-"

They both stopped, their gazes steady. Francis stared into her brown eyes, his heart hammering in his chest. He smiled softly. "That black scarf looks good on you."

Mary looked away.

"I'm sorry. I haven't...I haven't been honest with you, Mary, and-" he took a breath. "Mary, Olivia and I-"

"I don't want to hear it! Please stop. You don't have to explain anything to me." She tried to pull her arm out of his grasp, but he held firm.

"Mary, I care for you," he told her suddenly. Those hadn't been the words he wanted to say. "I-I have made mistakes with Olivia, but they will not continue. I swear it. Mary, I-"

"They _will_ happen, Francis. That's the problem. You may care for me, but you aren't committed to this alliance, to me."

_No_. Francis shook his head. This wasn't going how he expected it would. "Mary-"

"You cannot deny it. You still don't believe I am the best option for France and your heart. Tell me I am wrong. _Tell me."_

Francis wanted to. Anything to erase the hurt in her eyes. But he couldn't.

He just couldn't.

He left his hands fall to his side. "It was promised that I marry you," he said pleadingly,wanting her to know he was trying.

"Yet you can't promise me anything."

"Mary, please, I'm trying. Please believe me."

Mary looked away from him.

"I can't."

§

Bash didn't knock when he opened the door to his mother's chambers. He hadn't expected anyone to be there.

So to find his Father retie his robe was a surprise.

"Bash?" he father demanded with ease. Bash shook his head and nodded towards his mother.

"I wasn't aware my mother would be receiving any visitors," Bash said. "I've come to speak to her...of a private manner."

"Private? Even from the King?" his father flashed him a smile.

"Yes, well I need a woman's perspective. I am courting a woman, who is of the earth in nature. I needed to know what gift would be-_woodsy_ enough for her."

Bash watched as his mother's head raised higher. "Darling, let me speak to our son alone."

"Yes, well, of course. Never thought I'd see the day when Bash was courting." His father gave his mother a quick kiss, and slipped out of the room. When they both could no longer hear his father's retreating footsteps, his mother motioned for him to sit beside her.

"What has happened?"

Bash took a breath. "The heretics, mother. I might have...disrupted one or two of their blood rituals."

"Bash! What on earth-"

"I didn't expect such consequences. I did not anticipate any at _all_. And now a boy has told me that if I don't find someone to sacrifice, Mary will die."

"Mary?"

"She has been 'chosen'," Bash spat. "Mother, these heretics, do they consider me one of them, because of your blood?"

"I don't know...but Bash, if anyone ever found out of my past, we would both be burned. Didn't I warn you about her? Why didn't you listen?" his mom asked with anger.

Bash shook his head. "Just tell me how to fix this. Please."

"She has been marked. It is only a matter of time. Bash, you must choose someone to sacrifice, or she will die."

"I could never sacrifice an innocent."

"Not even to save yourself?"

"Of course not!" Bash felt appalled.

"But for Mary?"

Bash's eyes widened. His throat felt tight.

"Bash," his mother continued, "it can be anyone. Just-find someone who deserves to die, and complete your offering. It's all you can do now."

"And who am I to determine who deserves to die?" He exclaimed. "If I had known this would happen, and that Mary would be put in danger, I would have never cut them down."

"But you did, my son." His mother threw her arms around him.

"You must decide who is to die," she whispered to him. She released him. "Or they will decide for you."

Bash felt numb. More importantly, he felt afraid. He went to the door.

"When you have paid your debt, harden your heart torwards her," his mother said to his back. Bash opened the door and left without uttering a word.

Why was it that Fate was against him? Why had he been born in a world where entitlement meant everything?

Bash had to find Mary. He had to warn her of the danger she was in.

He wondered if perhaps she were in her room, but when he reached her door, what he saw made his blood run cold.

A necklace, the same necklace which the heretic boy worn, was dangling from the handle of Mary's door. Fury within him, he yanked it off the door and stuffed it in his pocket. He had to find her. He had to end this.

§

Mary sat on the log by the lake, sulking. Thinking. She was so confused. Both Francis and Bash had her heart in knots, and she didn't know what to do about it.

_Francis_. She wanted to love Francis. Yet, every time she got close to him, he was always pushing her away. And then there was Bash. He was always there for her. Always.

And she had taken advantage of his friendship and kindness. No wonder why he didn't want to look at her.

She sighed. She tossed a rock into the lake.

"Mary!"

Mary turned. Bash was running towards her. To _her_. She frowned.

"Yes, Bash?" she asked him when he was beside her.

"Are you alright?"

She felt her eyebrows raise, as she was surprised by his question. "Yes. Why?"

Bash shook his head. "No reason," he said slowly. He straightened his posture. "If you'll excuse me now."

Mary felt her heart in her throat. He was leaving. He really couldn't stand her after all.

"I'm sorry, Bash!"

Bas turned back around to face her. "Sorry. For what?"

"That kiss," Mary swallowed. "You've been ignoring me."

"Mary-"

"I'm really sorry," she told him earnestly. "That I kissed you how I had." She dropped her gaze. "And my actions. I never meant-I never wanted you to see me any different, I-I'm sorry that I forced you to take pity on me, I'm _sorry_, Bash. You tried to ease my pain, and my burdens, which were never yours to take and yet I forced them upon you; I am sorry."

Bash sighed, and she felt him sit beside her. Felt his hand touch the black scarf around her throat which hid the kiss mark that he'd give her. "That's not it," he told her softly. She looked up at him.

"What is it, then?"

"I didn't kiss you to ease your pain. I kissed you, because you are the thing that I want most."

Mary shook her head. "What-?"

"Mary," Bash whispered, with a look of such sadness that Mary didn't know what to do. "Mary." He reached for her, and Mary backed away, pained instantly by the look of rejection on his face.

"Yesterday was my mistake. I was hurt, and you comforted me like I asked of you. I'm sorry," she said in a rush. "I'm sorry. If you were under any impression that what happened between us was a sense of affection towards one another-"

"Wasn't it?" Bash grabbed her arm and pulled her too him. Her breath hitched at his gaze.

"Tell me you don't feel that, Mary," he whispered, bringing his head low.

She felt light headed, with his scent so near to her. He smelled of peppermint, sweet and comforting. As if on instinct, her body responded to him, her head angling up. _No!_ Mary pushed away and stood.

"Mary," Bash said to her after a moment, "if you were just a girl-"

"I don't know, Bash! I don't know." The admission shocked even her. If she _were_ just a girl, would he be the one she wanted? For such a long time, she thought that she and Francis were destined, and now...

These feelings, and flutters; emotions for Bash. Mary shook her head, backing away.

_Take it back, take it back; take it back_. As long as she didn't say the words out loud, she could pretend she didn't know those feelings.

"Mary-" Bash started, and she quickly held up her hand to halt him.

"I will not be responsible for breaking anyone's heart; not Francis', not yours, and not mine. Please. Please understand that. There is nothing between us that can be promised."

And she was running. Running away from Bash, away from all she'd realized.

As long as she kept it hidden, she didn't have to admit to any of it.

§

Bash sat on a log in the Blood Wood, waiting, Mary's words playing in his mind.

Was it really a mistake? Is that what she really thought?

He heard the man's footsteps before his voice. "You're a bastard, son of a heretic and King! Of course it was."

Bash narrowed his eyes, fingering the trigger of his automatic bow. "Get out of my head."

"It can't be helped. We have an instant connection with our kind."

Bash looked up at the cloaked man. "I am _not_ of _your_ kind."

"You want what you will never have. Want it so badly, that it is a darkness in your heart, Sebastian," the cloaked man hissed. The cloak man regarded the noose which Bash had tied in a tree. "So willing to kill for that which you want. We have imprinted into you finely."

"That isn't it. I am going to kill you for someone that I have to protect!" Bash didn't hesitate. He lifted the bow and fired, an arrow piercing the cloaked man in the stomach. Bash stood then, and drawing his sword approached the man who lied on the ground.

The man gave him a crooked smile. "She is what you desire most, is that it?" the man laughed. "That desire will drive you mad, Bastard. That desire will give you our Bloodlust. It already has. Can you be so sure that she will ever desire you?"

Bash pierced the man's shoulder with his sword. How dare this man, that heretic, speak as if he knew him. The man's words swirled in Bash's mind, and he shut his eyes tight, trying to will them away. How could e be so sure? How?

Then Bash remembered the moment they shared that day; how Mary tilted her face towards his for just a moment.

He opened his eyes and stared coldly at the cloaked man, aware that he had seen his thoughts.

"You can wish all you want, boy, but she will _never_ be yours."

_Shut up_.

Bash withdrew his sword from the man's shoulder and plunged it in his sternum. He watched the man's face contort with pain, before his face went slack.

Bash stabbed him again for good measure.

He looked to the tree that held the rope he had brought with him. Taking the noose down, he bound the man's feet. Bash grunted as he hefted the man into the tree. He place his sword back in its sheathe, then took out his dagger.

He stared at the dead man for only a moment longer. Then he pressed his blade to the man's neck, and slit his throat. As he watched the blood spill onto the ground, Bash couldn't deny that he was glad the man was dead.

§

Francis walked begrudgingly back to his chambers. Mary's words were replaying in his head. The betrayal in her eyes. Did she already know what he and Olivia had done?

When he opened the door to his chambers Olivia was there, sitting on his bed. Francis' cursed and shut the door much quicker than he expected. "Why are you in here?" he demanded. "What if someone saw you come here. You need to leave. Now." He went to her. "Get out."

"Francis." Olivia stood and stared him in the eyes. "Do you still love me?"

Francis felt his heart stop. What was she talking about?

"We're over. You left _me_, Olivia."

"Then why are you holding your breath right now?"

Francis was drowning. In blue eyes. In brown. He just didn't know anymore. He was so confused. He was afraid. He often said he wanted to be a ruler who didn't let his heart rule him, but now his mind was sputtering as loud as his heart beat.

"I can only choose one path. If I choose one, the other disappears, and I can never find it. The ceiling falls atop it, and crushes it completely," Francis whispered.

When her hand caressed his cheek, a jolt of electricity passed through him and left him shaking.

"You don't need to promise me anything," Olivia told him softly.

And then she kissed him.

§

Mary walked briskly through the courtyard. The wind blew harshly, strands of her hair flying haphazardly about her face. She strained against the wind as she ran to the stables. Sure, she could have simply stayed inside the castle; but it'd been suffocating, the walls of French Court. She opened the door to the stables, running inside, finding instant shelter and warmth from the cold. She didn't have a horse of her own, but every time she wanted to ride, she used Bash's white one. When Mary maneuvered her way through the maze of stables to get to the horse, she was surprised to see Bash there, putting the horse away.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, surprised. He looked at her. "I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone would be here." She bowed her head respectfully. "I'll leave you-"

"Mary. About what you said before; I don't care. I don't want promises. I just want you."

"Bash-" Mary trailed off as he embraced her, his warmth enveloping her, his peppermint smell invading her. It was too late to deny to herself.

The whole time she had been at French Court, she had been developing feelings for Bash. She shut her eyes tightly, trying, but failing, to not relax against him.

"I will not stay away," he whispered as he relinquished his hold. "I will not."

His eyes were so blue. So bright. So smoldering. She felt lost. Drowned.

"What is going on here?"

And just like that the spell was broken. With a jolt, Mary turned to face Francis, instantly feeling a twinge of guilt as she went to him. Hid behind him.

As if he could shield her from Bash's voice. From her feeling towards him.

"We were just discussing the weather, little brother." The lie was smooth, quick, and effortless. Bash gave a smile. "If you ever feel the need to come to me yourself, you know where to find me."

Mary's face instantly flushed. She turned on her heels.

"What is he referring to?" Francis asked. Mary looked at him.

"He was offering to give me fighting lessons at a point in time during our discussion of the...weather," she said. "We were debating a time, but have _not_ come to any conclusions." She gave a stiff smile. "Please excuse me. I'm quite tired."

As she walked away, she tried to reason with herself, telling herself that it was because she was going to stay away from Bash that she lied to Francis, and not because of anything more.


	10. Chapter 10

Letter from the Author: Hey, you guys! So, I realized how rushed this story would seem if I stuck to the script too closely. Like in previous LFTA's in which I had spoken of it, you will finally see this story start to head in its own directions whilst staying merged with the TV series' plot.

With that being said, these **next few chapters will be short** ones. I am research for TPFA and also beta reading, along with writing original work of my own. I hope you all will remain with me and remain patience! Also, more characters will be introduced soon.

Thank you for your reviews, views, favourites, alerts, and follows. You can check out my blog (which is poetry and stuff) at ** mariemeyers. WordPress. com**. You can also add me on Twitter (some of you already have) at **meyermariea**, and find me on Tumblr at**jusslex. Tumblr. Com**. You can find more information on _Reign, The Petals that Fall,_ and just what I'm up to when I'm away for a long time!

Muse of late: Andrew Belle! Give him a listen if you haven't yet. Remember to review, lovelies!

_I see the question mark a top your spine/ I've got a ladder honey won't you let me climb_

_Tell me all about your foreign wars/And all about the photographs that line your drawers_

_Cause I know a lot about closing doors/But not enough about what opens up yours_

_Oh my my/Oh my stars/Everything you see is ours_

_Or it could be if you would try/I wish you would/I wish you might_

_If everything you've said to me has been true/Then all my stars are leading me to you_

_-Oh My Stars,_ Andrew Belle

* * *

§

Mary opened her eyes suddenly. It took her a moment, but the fog on her mind lifted, and she could instantly recognize her chambers in the French castle. She was glad to know that she had been merely dreaming, but it panged her heart as well, and she couldn't help but long for her birthright.

She had dreamt of Scotland; she was among its luscious poppy fields. In her dream, upon realizing where she stood, she'd felt instant elation, stretching her arms out wide and running to embrace the wind.

Then suddenly she was in his arms; Sebastian du Poitiers held her by the waist, smiling. Mary, subsequently, had both hands brought to his cheeks. In her dream, an instant look of confusion crossed her features, and was met with Bash's hearty laugh.

"It's okay, Mary," he said to her. "It's okay to dream of this."

And then he lowered his mouth to hers, capturing her lips in a kiss so searing, that even her subconscious knew it wasn't real.

Mary closed her eyes, annoyed. So she was dreaming about him now? That was just great. She silently prayed that it was not to become a habit, as she rolled off her side and out of bed. She was wearing a thin, white night dress; making her way to her seatee (which over looked her fireplace) she picked up her purple robe and wrapped it around her, quickly smoothing back her hair as she went to her door.

"Excuse me, guard."

"Your Grace?"

"Please fetch my maids; tell them I am awake and wish to be prepped," Mary instructed, stepping out the room slightly.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Mary watched the guard leave his post before shutting the door and leaning against it with a heavy sigh. She walked to her desk. The treaty (that she had still yet to touch) laid lonesome atop the fine wood. Her fingers gently ran along side the edges of the parchments, and her brows scrunched together as a frown settled on her lips as she thought of all the other tasks she still had to attend to. Not for the first time, she felt herself wishing she were not a queen riddled with the complications of politics.

The knock on the door made her jump, as her fingers deftly left the papers and she turned, as three maids entered her chambers.

"Good morning, Your Grace." The maids bowed their heads.

Mary nodded. "Make fresh water for the bath, promptly, please."

"Of course, Your Grace," one maid replied.

As the maids bustled about her room, Mary let her gaze travel to the window. A light fog had settled on the horizon of the courtyard. She recalled the chilly weather from the night before, and realized, with surprise, that the seasons were changing. Had she been in France for that long, already?

She shook her head slightly. For the first time since she had arrived to French Court, the Scottish queen felt truly homesick. _Of course, French Court may indeed prove to be home as well_, her mind supplied for her, but Mary couldn't help feeling bitter at the concept. France would only prove to be her home should King Henry, Catherine, and Francis will it.

She eyed the treaty again; for a time, receiving the power to negotiate the treaty as she saw fit seemed promising. However, now it was a hollow victory; one, Mary realized, still would only be met at another's discretion.

She was still quite powerless.

Hadn't she always been, though? She inherited her throne when she was four years old, and her mother ruled as regent. When she was six, she was sent to French Court to live, and eventually wed, Francis. Then, she was sent to live in the convent when her life was threatened at Court. Man alive-she was sent _back_ to French Court for the same reasons! And had she asked or requested any of it? Had she ever had any choices made about her that she'd made herself?

If she had ever had a choice, would she be there now?

"Your Grace. Your water is ready."

Mary nodded to the brown-haired maid, and followed her to the bath. Ceremoniously, she held out her arms as the maids stripped her of first her robe, then her night gown. Venomously, her mind whispered to her that she couldn't even undress herself. She shook her head clear as she stepped into the tub. She sat graciously, the water a bit too hot-but welcomed-as the scald on her skin kept her from focusing on the jagged tongue of her mind. She fell back against the tub, leaning against it; the contrasting cool of the metal providing a relaxing soothe.

Honey, vanilla, and lavender swirled around her, blending with the feel of her skin. Mary shut her eyes as she felt the hands of the maids upon her, scrubbing away the dead cells of her skin; of the filth of her heart, and bitterness of her mind.

Truth be told, she found it to be quite unsettling. She wasn't used to maids washing her, clothing her, or doing her hair. She preferred to do those things herself, but knew that every person had their responsibilities and idea of acceptable behaviours.

She was a queen, a royal. So it was natural for her to leave her dependency in the hands of another. Like with everything else in her life.

Especially in French Court.

But things would be different if she were back on her throne in Scotland. There, it was _her_ Court. There, _she_ had power. She felt a maid tap her shoulder, and knew it was time for her to stand, as she let her mind wander back to her native home.

She could see it in her mind. Scotland. It's bright green grasses and crystal loches. Mary thought of Lithlingow; she thought of her castle, of the land that surrounded it. Thought of the lake she used to sail in when she was a child. How she longed to see it-feel the water on her hands; submerge herself in its depth, and be reborn.

"Your Grace?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Jeannine asked if there was anything specific you wished to wear?"

"Oh. I had not anything planned."

"That's alright, Your Grace. We'll pick you out something lovely."

Mary stood naked at her window, back turned to the maids as she wallowed in her sadness. Why had she had that dream?

"Here you are, Your Grace. This dress will do you nicely." Mary turned her head. The dress was dark green and of a satin material whose name eluded her. The long sleeves were netted. Lucky for her, it had a matching slip and corset.

"Yes, it is lovely," she murmured in resignation, as the maids motioned her to come forth from the window. She complied with all their demands as they dressed her, her mind lost in memories of Lithlingow Palace and it's walls.

_How she wished that she was home_.


	11. Chapter 11

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"The new tiles look amazing. Henry had them gold plated. They look quite lovely in the room. Now if only I could convince him to throw out those carpets. Perhaps I should redecorate the room completely."

"Kenna, don't you think that would be a bit unreasonable? It must be hard for the King to suddenly have so much change in his life. He has had things a certain way for years."

"Lola, if the King wasn't ready for change, he would not have made me his official mistress," Kenna replied, matter-of-factly. "And his décor is thanks to Diane du Poitiers; _ne jolie pas_. It's sickening to sleep in there, and highly uncomfortable. Besides, it is only understandable. Right, Mary?"

"What?" Mary blinked as she looked up at her ladies-in-waiting. Her mind had travelled elsewhere the moment Aylee and Greer asked Kenna about her relationship with the French king. Mary still did not approve, so she had no trouble tuning out her best friends' voices as they strolled arm in arm through the courtyard.

Mary still couldn't believe it happened, the relationship between her friend and the King. Of course, lots of things had happened since they arrived at French Court which Mary had never anticipated.

She didn't know what to make of most of it, but she was sure she did not want to be brought into their current conversation.

"Is it not understandable that I would wish for certain things to be different now that I am the King's mistress, and in the case of Diane? It should be my right. It's only fair."

"And why are you asking my opinion?" Mary asked Kenna dryly. "Especially if you've made up your mind about it?"

"Because you should know best my way of thinking; with Olivia and Francis, I mean."

"Kenna!" Aylee exclaimed.

"What? Mary is in a situation similar to mine, and it has to do with the dauphin and his former lover."

"While it is true that Francis is acting like an idiot," Greer chimed in with a roll of her eyes, "that doesn't mean that Mary's situation and yours are the same. Kenna, you forget that, unlike Francis' relations with Olivia, King Henry's relationship with Diane was _recent_."

Mary winced at Greer's words. She hadn't told her ladies of the night she'd seen Francis bed Olivia, of how she had went to his room to apologize for her behaviours, and was told he'd went to see the Italian noblewoman. Fear had got the better of her, and she had went to Olivia's room; and just when she was debating on whether or not to knock on the door, she'd heard them.

Mary felt herself pale at the memory.

"Well, Olivia can still be considered a threat-"

"So you consider Diane a threat?"

"Well...of course not. Still-"

"No, Kenna-"

Mary interjected, "No, it's alright," she said to Lola, Aylee, and Greer. "Kenna's reservations are-just," she said softly. She sighed.

"Mary? Are you alright?" Greer asked her.

"Things are just so different than what I expected them to be," Mary admitted quietly, and silence finally settled over them.

When Mary had arrived at French Court, the reasons had been anything but pleasant. When her taste tester had been poisoned at the Scottish convent, the nuns had quickly prepped her; word had been sent to the Scottish regent, her mother Mary Guise, and within the hour a Scottish carriage had been ready to send her on a journey hastily to France.

The whole endeavour had taken nearly six days time. Mary remembered how she had sat in the carriage, gripping the cushions, gasping in fear at every sudden halt, or bump on the countryside. She remembered William, the kind Scot, who had been the commander of the troops that escorted her to France, and of how he would constantly urge the young queen to sleep. But sleep had eluded her on her journey.

When they had made it to the docks, she remembered her ambivalent wish that her mother-or even one of her messengers-would have been waiting, with a message of farewell and sentiments of platonic endearment; no royals or royal servants were waiting for her as she boarded the ship which would take her to French waters.

For nearly two days, she had been at sea with her Scottish company and Sterling. Sterling had proved to be an ample distraction from her fears; he had never been out to sea, and she'd watched him prance about the ship merrily, playing fetch with him and laughing when the guards had to struggle to pull the overjoyed Great Dane from the ship's edges, lest he jump into the water. She'd had her own quarters with no drafts or leaks (which she knew was a lot better than the rooms the crew and soldiers had of their own; save the captain of the ship, whose quarters must always be impeccable), velvet blankets the royal blue of her kingdom and Sterling's fur providing her warmth, alongside the gentle soothe of the ship's rocking as it rode the ocean's wave. But in the dark of the night, when she should have been at her most comfortable, she lied awake for several hours, restless; mind on poisonous porridge and bleeding nuns.

Then she had arrived. There were two carriages waiting for her, alongside horses for her men, as they unloaded from the ship and stepped onto the French soil. As soon as her feet had touched the ground, she'd realized how different everything was from Scotland. The air was different as was the look of the soil. Even the sunlight, which had streamed through the carriage windows, was different than the sunlight of her birthplace, and that was the moment Mary had finally let her situation sink into her, in which she realized that she was in France. After nearly nine years.

After so much time had passed, she was returning to a court to wed its heir, an heir she hadn't seen in an equally long amount of time.

She had suddenly been uncertain. Nervous. Afraid of being alone. The only thing that put her mind at ease was the fact that they had knew her once, and that her ladies would supposedly be joining her on her journey. These things and Sterling.

When the carriage had come to its final stop, she believed she was ready. As long as she was gracious, herself, and as long as she smiled, they would welcome her again with arms just as open as when she had been a child. The sudden memories in her mind were all she needed to solidify her resolution as the carriage door opened, and the platform was placed below the door for her to step down onto. William was beside her, hand out and nodding slightly, and Mary placed her hand in his, and allowed him to help her down.

The whole French Court had stood before her, scrutinizing her, determining in that moment if she were worthy to be consort to their crown. Mary eyes searched until she'd found her friends, and leaving the servants to unload her things, she'd went to them, remembering that all would be well, provided she smiled.

She had met Francis after that, and seen the man that he'd become. Her heart hammered in her chest-not out of love, but out of nervous fear and apprehension; he was the one that she would marry, and her cheeks had reddened as she realized how fair faced he was then, and how pleasant she found his build, voice, and eyes to be. She'd realized then that if they did indeed marry, she could, perhaps, grow to love him. The relief that she felt in that moment had to be palpable.

After that, she had had moments with the people of French Court. Moments, in which she found herself feeling more and more like she could make Court her home. At least, until Francis told her that she meant nothing to him, save an alliance, and that he did not intend to marry her.

After that, everything had gone wrong. Between the queen's treacheries-including the one in which Lola's intended had been executed (due to Catherine's demands that he attempt to compromise Mary)-she and Francis' rocky relationship, and of course, Tomas of Portugal-Mary's body grimaced in the unpleasantries-since her return, there had been nothing but mysteries and deceptions conceived against her.

Often, Mary had wondered how she was to live in a Court where all seemed to be waiting for her to leave it.

Luckily she had allies-her ladies, Sebastian du Poitiers, Clarissa (the mysterious girl whom lived in the old secret passageways of the castle, whom Mary had never seen but whom often aided in saving her life), and eventually Francis himself-and friends to keep her sane and remembering she was not alone.

Then, after Tomas had been executed, it had seemed as if all would be well. She and Francis had a semi-romantic, awkward relationship which was slowly improving, there were no attempts on her life. All _was_ well.

And then Olivia Demencour had perilously returned to the castle (reasons that Mary herself did not know). And now everything was going downhill all over again. Now, Mary found herself in a few _predicaments_. The relationship of her intended and his former lover, and her own relationship with his brother, being two of them.

_Not that the four of them were in any relationships with each other_. _Especially_ she and Bash. _Especially_ Francis and Olivia. _Especially_-she and Francis.

There just so many trials, being a queen.

"The seasons are changing," she remarked quietly, as she pulled her cloak firmly against her. "I noticed it last night. The weather had been ghastly."

"I have noticed it as well," Greer replied.

"Do you suppose the changing seasons will be the same here as in Scotland?" Aylee asked, a hopeful twinge in her voice that Mary could distinctly recognize.

"I wouldn't think so, Aylee," Greer said, "because we aren't in Scotland. This is France. The climates are sure to be different."

"Well, then I wonder if they have similar customs to celebrate the changing times as we. I would love to partake in Hogmanay..." Aylee said, trailing off quietly.

"I wouldn't mind celebrating Saint Andrew, you know, the way they do back home," Greer agreed, smiling at Aylee and taking her hand. She met Mary's glance, and Mary saw the sadness flicker in her gaze, before Greer looked away.

"I loved the feast mother would make us for Marymass," Lola added. "I wonder if she made it this year."

Talks of Scotland made them all somber. All except for Kenna, who released herself from Aylee and Lola's arms and ran in front of them all.

"Sure, okay, Scotland's festivals and celebrations _were_ great, but-this is our time to experience _new_ traditions and _new_ culture; not be homesick for old ones!" she said. "Although, I'm not entirely sure what all France has to offer, I'm sure Henry celebrates the traditions of his country in his court, so-we will have festivities we could enjoy-"

"Kenna, it isn't about the festivals," Lola told her dryly. "When does the King _not_ have a celebration here? And yes, they are all fun and entertaining-but what about _home_? You might be perfectly fine with staying at court and adapting to French lifestyle, and making it your home...but the rest of us miss _Scotland_. We want to go home."

"Not indefinitely," Greer added quickly, looking in Mary's direction. "It would just be nice to have a little Scotland back in our lives."

Mary looked at her friends. "It sounds as if you have all spoken of this before," she said to them, finally focusing on their conversations. She watched them all fidget, and guilt assaulted her instantly.

"It's as Greer said; we're just a bit homesick, Mary. Honest. We like it here, and we like being here with you," Aylee answered slowly, "it's just that, well, we are Scottish. Where is our culture and customs here?"

Mary nodded, understanding. She took Lola and Aylee by the hand, and gave a soft smile. "I miss it. Even though I don't show it, I, too, wish its influence were somehow in these halls."

"May I ask, what influence you ladies are referring to?"

_That voice_. Mary stiffened. She sucked in a breath.

"Hello, Bash," Aylee said, and Mary closed her eyes in annoyance. Or dread. She found she suddenly had an distinctive urge to flee as she heard him speak again.

"Lady Aylee. Lady Greer. Lady Kenna. Lady Lola-" Mary watched her ladies smile warmly at the man at her back-"you all look lovely today. And Your Grace as well. Naturally." Mary slowly turned.

She met his smile with a stiff one of her own. "Bash," she said curtly. Beside him, Kenna's eyes flickered from Bash's profile to her own, until she at last quirked a brow, at which Mary hastily looked away from.

None of her ladies knew about what all had transpired between she and Bash, either.

"Now, may I ask: what is this influence you all speak of? Is the lack thereof why all of you are walking about in the cold?" Bash folded his arms in mock chastisement.

"They were talking of Scotland," Kenna replied to him. "They-_we_-miss the customs."

"And, it isn't too cold, just a bit chill. It is still lovely enough outside to enjoy nature," Lola told him.

"Of course. Customs? I am not familiar with Scottish custom, I'm afraid; which ones have your reminiscence?"

"Hogmanay, the celebration of Saint Andrew, and Marymass-the celebrations of the new year, the virgin Mary, and Saint Andrew."

"Ah. I see." Bash cleared his throat. "I was actually hoping that I could interrupt your stroll to ask your queen to accompany my own."

Mary could feel their eyes on her, especially Bash, Lola, and Kenna. Forcing herself to look up and appear as nonchalant as possible, Mary gave them a quick smile and a slight shake of her head.

"Actually, Bash, we were on our way back to the castle." She knew her ladies would assume this to be a lie, and she also knew that she would have to explain herself to them later, but she did not wish to be alone with Bash if she need not be.

"We were?" Aylee asked her suddenly, forcing Mary to close her eyes. "I thought-"

"I suddenly don't feel too well, Aylee, and I was about to suggest it."

Mary looked at Kenna, whose eyes were not focused on hers but on someone's next her.

"Then the weather would help," Mary turned her attentions to Lola, who stood beside her, looking straight ahead. Her eyes finally met Mary's. "It may very well be this talk of home that has you ill. Perhaps your memories are giving you a sense of sea-sickness, as if you are still setting sail to Court," she said to Mary slowly.

"Right, and the cool breeze would help your disposition, I'm sure." Mary glanced at Kenna, and her brows furrowed, as panic began to rise in her throat. She could see the grin on Bash's face in her peripheral.

"But Lola, Kenna," Mary said, her voice controlled and clipped, "I thought we were enjoying some leisurely time together, just us girls."

"Yes, but, we _were_ on our way back inside, after all," Lola replied.

"And, Henry and I's chamber does not have enough ventilation for your sickness," Kenna chipped in. She reached for Mary, and pulled her away from the others, and it shocked Mary how easily they let her go. She watched as Kenna put herself where she had stood among them.

"You and Bash enjoy your stroll, and when it is over and you feel a bit better, you must be sure to find us in my chambers."

Mary shook her head and took a step towards her retreating friends, "Kenna-"

"Shall we walk, Your Grace?" Bash asked, stepping in front of her. She looked up at him, frowning, and he gave her a wide grin. Swallowing audibly, Mary shoulders slumped in defeat.

Great. Just. Great.


	12. Chapter 12

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"What is it that you want?" Mary hissed at him, still watching her friends walk back to the castle. She was irate. Nervous. She hadn't counted on seeing him so soon after his confessions. She had barely wrapped her mind around them, more focused on her own emotions to focus on another's.

Once Francis had escorted her to her chambers the night before, Mary had sunk to her knees, shaken. Shaken that her feelings for Sebastian were more than friendship. Shaken that she had romantic feelings towards him. Before, it was easy for her to chalk up the night they shared as a moment of her weakness, but now she knew it was more than that.

As she'd leaned her head against the cool wood of the door, she'd tried to collect herself, and figure out when everything started. She couldn't, and her ineptitude had left her frustrated and frightened.

Staring at him now, Mary noticed how much more aware she was of him. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners as he stared down at her, the way his cerulean eyes sharply met her own as he tried to read her reactions, the way a fine stubble was forming on his recently shaven face, and the imperceptible way his jaw clenched. It was unnerving, how much she could suddenly see, in comparison to before. She hated it; what type of person developed emotions for the sibling of their intended?

Then again, what type of person developed feelings for their sibling's intended? She knew not how to answer the nagging questions, and her frustration ate at her once more. Mary narrowed her eyes.

"Sebastian du Poitiers. If you have nought to say to me, I shall go join my friends and sit in Kenna's quaint lovers' nest." She said this as indignantly as she could and hoped he wasn't as perceptive as he appeared, becoming nervous when he had yet to answer. She waited a few moments longer, and when the silence was too much to bear, she scoffed.

"Well, if you'll excuse me." Mary kept her eyes averted as she stepped passed him. She wasn't even a good distance away when he finally spoke.

"So this is how we are to be, then? One admission of affection, and we turn into strangers, and I not one worthy to stand in the presence of the Scottish queen?"

It wasn't his words that brought her to an abrupt stop, but the hurt she heard in his voice when he said them. It was the kind of hurt that no one needed to like him to notice, and Mary spun around quickly, her lips instantly parting in protest as he continued.

"After everything? After all the times we've shared?"

"No," Mary said quickly. "That isn't what this is. Not at all."

"You've barely spoken to me."

"Sebastian," Mary sighed. "It hasn't even been a full day, since everything happened-"

"Does the length of time even count?"

"It does when I need to figure out where to go from here!" Mary exclaimed, suddenly irate at his words. She was angry at herself, for making him feel as he did. Angry with herself, because she didn't know what to do now. "Bash, those things that you said to me-it isn't right. It isn't proper to feel such a way for one promised to another. It isn't right for someone to blatantly covet someone when it's been fated that they're meant for someone else! I-"

"And to whom are you speaking to when you say those words, Mary?" Bash said quietly, and Mary felt herself hesitate. Her eyes flickered to the ground. She knew what he was referring to. Knew that, once again, Sebastian du Poitiers had seen right through her.

But she couldn't say the words out loud.

Mary felt rather than seen Sebastian take a step towards her. She could feel the heat of his skin and the air shift as he stepped directly in front of her. She sucked in a breath, refusing to look up at him, waiting.

There was a sudden heat hovering just above her cheek. The warmth spread into a light tingle, sending her already sputtering heart into a frenzy, and Mary felt her cheeks flush at the recognition of the affect he had on her. "You notice it, don't you?" Bash's voice was low, filled with something Mary's mind associated with longing. She clenched her teeth, irritated at herself again.

What was she doing? Reluctantly, she brought raised her head to meet Bash's stare, startled by the intensity in his gaze. Her brows knit together, and Mary felt her eyes drift closed as he moved his hand up, the tingle spreading along the curve of her ear. He wasn't touching her, but he might as well had been.

For a moment, Mary found herself giving in to the pleasurable fluttering that was assaulting her. Found herself squeezing her thighs together without second thought. She caught herself, and her eyes opened quickly, as something other than romantic sentiment squeezed her heart: fear.

What was she doing; why hadn't she walked away?

"You're wrong for this," Mary's voice quivered as she spoke. "I am the intended of your _brother_. I want Francis. I am going to marry him. I am going to learn to love him."

For a moment, Bash's eyes left hers; but then, as if undergoing some silent agreement, he met her stare again. "I know I should feel guilty that I feel this way...but I don't. You did that, Mary, the moment you held my gaze the night of my half-sister's wedding."

Mary blinked at his admission. "Bash-"

"Is he all you want?" Mary felt herself falter, and at her hesitance, Bash surged on.

"I covet, Mary._ I covet_," he told her softly, "and so do you."

Mary parted her lips to protest, to deny him, to refute everything-

"I want _Francis_ to make me feel this way," she whispered, an unrelenting sadness forming inside her.

"And does he?" Bash replied.

"Yes. Yes, he does."

Bash stood silent as he held her gaze, searching. Finally, he gave her a small smile.

"But it's not the same, is it?"

Mary wanted to tell him he was wrong, but she couldn't. She couldn't, and she hated that the most. She looked away from him then.

It seemed like hours that they stood there, not saying anything, the weight of their already spoken words thickly in the air.

She was lost. Utterly and completely. She had never meant for this to happen. She had wanted to develop feelings for Francis. Not his brother. Bash had been a dear friend to her in their childhood. He was still someone precious to her, someone, she realized in that moment, that she needed.

So what was she doing? What had she done? What was to come of them now?

"It's alright, Mary." Bash's soft words brought her back from her reverie, and warily she looked back at him. Instead of seeing longing or hurt-she saw nothing. Bash's eyes were guarded. He stepped away from her, creating a modest distance between them.

"I didn't mean to plague you with unnecessary troubles last evening, or now; I just wanted you to notice what I felt for you." Bash folded an arm across his stomach, and gave her a full bow.

"Bash, what are you doing?" Mary asked, surprised. "Why-"

"I won't back you into a corner, Mary. You have nothing to worry about. Regardless of these emotions we-_I_-feel."

Mary froze. "I don't understand. Last night, in the stables, you said-"

"I know. And, I meant it. However, I only wished to make you aware. I will not force them on you. I won't force you to go at my pace."

Mary shook her head. "Bash, I-"

"Mary." Bash interjected and straightened his posture. "I only wanted you to know."

"Bash..." There was something about his words that Mary didn't believe. There was a feeling that she felt, that she realized Bash-for her sake-was ignoring.

"I only wanted to speak with you, so as to clarify these matters; I don't want to lose what we have, Mary. Whatever it may be. We make a good team, you and I." He gave her a smile, and Mary knew, that even with his eyes giving away nothing, that his smile wasn't real. "Perhaps you have yet to notice, but I think-"

Mary interjected, bowing her head low. "Yes, you're right. We are quite the pair." Then, "I need you, Bash."

What Mary wanted to do was apologize. She hadn't realized just how important he were to her before. She had always cared for him, but prior to their current conversation, Mary had never noticed just how much she relied on him. Mary thought back to all the moments they'd shared. He was always there for her, always willing to guide her, and she had almost tossed that all away.

She thought wryly on how drastic her thoughts were changing about the situation. His words contradicted his previous actions, she knew; knew that he was lying-and also knew that she could not say so. This was how far her friend was willing to go for her, and the sadness it made her feel was so overwhelming, that she knew that her desire for him was real.

Mary was struck by his tenderness. By his willingness to understand her.

So she would do the only thing she could now. After repeatedly wondering what was to become of them, the answer was suddenly quite clear; she couldn't draw him closer, but she wouldn't push him away.

"You have always been there to guide me-I can't throw that away," she said quietly, smiling a smile that mirrored his own.

She heard him chuckle. "Don't bow to anyone of lower standing. You are a queen," he scolded lightly.

"You are not of lower standing." She stood straight, posture regal like it should, and sadly delighted when the smile he showed her at her words was a bit more genuine.

He didn't comment back on the topic, instead he folded his hands behind his back, and said: "So, tell me about these Scottish traditions."

* * *

_AEN: Hey, everyone. I realize this chapter has been long awaited. I thank you all for your patience and diligence. I wasn't sure how I wanted to write this chapter. For these new few chapters, I'm not quite sure how to write my ideas down in the form of a story. Not only that, but each chapter has been typed, edited, uploaded by an Android phone or two. It can be much sometimes. Life has just caught up to me. Like now, for example, I've yet to sleep. I keep dozing off and typing weird things. Ahh, well; sometimes that happens. _

_Remember to review and share! And follow me on Twitter at meyermariea. Thanks!_


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer/ Letter from the Author: Hey guys, sorry this is so late. The holidays and everything made things so difficult for a while. I also am part of an RP for _Reign_, so that takes a lot of time, too. But I know a bit more on where the direction of this story is going to head, and it is going to be a lot longer than I thought. I thank you guys for your support.

This isn't a long chapter, but I think it is still a good one. I already know what I want the next few chapters to consist of, so I hope you all will stick with me. _**Frary**_ shippers, never fear. There will me more soon for you all to enjoy. The ladies-in-waiting will have more interactions with Mary. There will also be more Mabastian, although it will, and is, progressing slowly for a reason.

You shall also see how the story weaves into the storyline of _Reign_. I can't wait to write out all the things I have in plan for _TPTF_, especially the ending. :0. I already wrote it out. The final scene. Now, I just have to fill in the blanks!

I hope you like this chapter. I hope you like it enough to review it, and review it, even if you didn't enjoy the chapter. Also, remember that more is on the way.

Oh, and another thing - _**REIGN WON THE AWARD FOR FAVORITE NEW TV DRAMA.**_ Fuck yes. Sorry, I meant _fudge_.

I also wrote a long one shot, called _Welcome was the Daylight_. It is a Mary, Bash fic, and one where Bash is prince! Awesome sauce, right? Be sure to check it out.

Because it's been so long, let me remind you: _Reign_ and its characters are property of Laurie McCarthy and the CW. I don't own them. However the originality of this story is mine, so please ask permission before you reuse any part of my Fanfiction.

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When Mary began walking towards the lake, Bash followed in step. For a moment, she contemplated in silence, feeling awkward and uncertain by the abrupt change in direction with their conversation. She knew that it was for the best that they put everything that had recently happened behind them, but, well - _so much_ had happened in the course of the few days, and - she felt as if to simply pretend nothing had happened between them was just wrong, somehow.

Felt like, for a queen, she wasn't being very honest.

And as a girl whom often claimed to desire to follow her heart in matters, she felt as if she were not following it.

_Of course, _Mary's mind whispered,_ Bash said that he meant what he spoke in the stables;_ however now, Mary wondered what he referred to. Did he mean that he only meant his affections, or had he also been referring to his confession of intent? For a brief while when they stood in the courtyard, Mary had believed Bash had meant the latter. Now, though, with his recent decision to keep her - and himself - at arms' length, she felt as if perhaps he'd meant the former, instead.

If that was the case, things between them could be fine; if that was all he'd meant with speaking, she and Bash could attempt to maintain their friendship.

Mary had her gaze downcast, but she snapped her head up and turned to him when she felt his hand close around, and tug against, her own.

She looked at him, startled, confused, and with her eyebrows crinkling. Her lips parted, but she knew not what she was going to say. Her heart stuttered, a bit. _What was he doing, holding her hand? Didn't he just say he would no longer do such actions? _

"Mary," Bash's voice was resolute and pointed. "Things between us don't have to be silent. Friends have awkward situations with one another constantly; they work past them, by resolving the difference and conversing in one another's presence." His blue eyes were bright with worry, and with a want for her to understand him. Relaxing, Mary squeezed his fingers before gently removing her hand from his grasp.

"You're right, I'm sorry," she said as she gave him a pained and exasperated smile. "I've just never dealt with such things before."

"Friends?" Bash questioned, brow raised, the worry and wish for her understanding replaced with amusement.

She rolled her eyes. "Boys," she said the word like it were strange and foreign. Bash laughed heartily, and at the sound of his laughter in her ears, she gave him a relaxed smile, now truly believing, and hoping, that all things between them could be made well.

"We are strange creatures indeed," Bash replied, eyes fixated on the log that was now within their view. "But not as strange of creatures as you women."

"What! Please. Sebastian, we are neither strange nor mysterious; a smart man will find that if he figures out the needs which we need to have met, that we are quite simple." She quickened her pace, reaching the log in a few short strides, and sitting down as far to the left as she could go. In no time, Bash had joined her.

"That's the thing; that critical deduction," he drawled.

"Mitchy me, Bash! You call yourself a creature? Men are more like _things_," she countered saucily.

She looked over to find him staring at her. "What?"

"Mitchy me," he echoed. "What is that?"

"What?" it was her turn to look at him, amused. "It's a saying - much like, '_May God have Mercy upon my soul_'."

"Well if that is the case, I can say I am offended. Tell me more of these sayings. Of Scotland. Your home. These festivities that are to be this season?"

Mary sighed in answer to his question, her mind and heart straying towards her homeland so very far away. "Well, they are just as Greer had explained," Mary told him, slowly. "Not to include the Highland Games," she told him sadly.

"The Highland Games?"

Mary nodded. "They are excursions. Much like the tournaments done here in France for your entertainment."

"I see. And what is done in them?"

Mary thought back to the Games she had seen when she had been in Scotland, turning from Bash to stare out at the lake.

"The first one I had seen, I think I had been about eight years old," Mary began slowly, focusing on the memories. "There had been whispers about it among the children - and even some nuns - in the convent. One day, I was kicking around a ball with the other children, and a child kicked it so far and went beyond the threshold of the convent gates. I offered to get the ball, sneaking my way outside through a hole in the gate the other children and I had found, hidden in the bushes there."

She heard Bash chuckle softly; she knew not what part of the story had amused him, but didn't stop to ask as she continued. "Outside the convent, I searched for the ball. I kept to the bushes, hidden along the forest line. I saw it - its muddy color and round shape barely on the other side, showing brilliantly in the sunlight. I got down on my hands and knees, and began crawling under the bushes, to the other side of the forest line - and I saw them.

So many men, all practicing and preparing for the Games. Setting up tents. Creating work stations...it was all so amazing," Mary whispered, eight years old again, clutching the ball tightly in her hand as she stared at the many men before her. "I was so captivated. At the time, I'd not known what the games were, but I thought to myself, in that moment, '_This must be that wonder that everyone is whispering about._' I just had to go.

So I asked one of the young nuns, a new one, if she could speak to my elder, and grant permission. Because I was to be hidden away, I didn't go many places. My elder came to me, a frown on her face, angry to know that I had again snuck out of the convent, regardless the reason, and told me that going to the Games could prove too dangerous. I begged her though. I was just...in awe of it. I truly felt that if I didn't go then, I would never get the chance to do so." Mary sighed.

"I can assume she granted you pardon. Your elder, I mean."

Mary nodded, still immersed in the memory, smiling broadly. "Oh, yes. We went the day the Games began." Mary looked at him, eyes shining with mirth. "It was absolutely wonderful. There was stone throwing, tossing of the caber, tug-of-war - just, many a things that showed off the strength of the men, and the delicacies of the women. It was absolutely beautiful."

She could see the hint of a smile tugging against the corners of Bash's lips, "Tossing of the Caber?"

"The men would take these gigantic pine logs - and I exaggerate not! They were as big as _trees_! - and they would balance them in their hands vertically, and toss them up and out in such a way that they spun end to end in the air," she jubilantly explained.

"It sounds amazing, Mary."

His words made her somber. Mary sobered immediately, a frown settling on her lips as she down casted her gaze again. "This is the season for the games in Scotland," she said quietly. "I wish we could have them here. I wish that some part of Scotland could be here."

"Why can't it?"

Mary looked up at Bash from underneath her lashes. "Mary, if you talk to Father, he will no doubt agree. It might intrigue him, and with Lady Kenna as his new mistress - "

"I can't take such liberties, as to demand such a thing. Or even ask of them, Sebastian. This is not my Court."

"Then I will tell Father that it is something that I want to have happen here."

Mary was taken back by his honest and innocent reply. His confident air with which he spoke his words. Bash knew he was his father's favourite, and so, inevitably, knew that certain things he asked of his father would be granted to him.

Mary had never thought Bash the type of spoiled child to take his liberties for granted, so his words of doing so, of abusing the adoration his father felt for him, and at her benefit, left her speechless.

"I don't think I know quite what to say to that," she told him truthfully. "I didn't think you were the type to abuse his status, or relationships, with others."

"I'm not. But won't this make you happy here, in our home? In my Court? I don't see why I would not try to do all I could for the sake of your happiness," he said simply.

Mary's lips parted at his words, and she felt heat rise onto the surface of her skin. Her heart beat faster in her chest, louder, and she suddenly became aware that, somehow, during her reminiscence, she had inched closer to him, close enough that their fingertips were just a graze away from one another's as their hands rest side by side on the log; or maybe he had moved closer to her, without her knowledge, she wasn't sure. She couldn't say. But, yet again, Mary was struck with the realization of his emotions for her, and his tenderness towards her.

Despite their decision to keep such emotions hidden away, she was caught in a tumult of emotion by his unabashed words, so Mary only stared at him, dumbfounded, eyes clouded with conflict.

Until Bash cleared his throat. "You are my close friend," he said. Pointedly. Clarifying his words and intents. Causing Mary to snap out of her stupor and flush even more with guilt and embarrassment at her misinterpretation. Of course that was what he meant. She should not have misinterpreted that.

_So why did she?_ She knew why she had, and she felt all the more embarrassed; for when he was so tender towards her, he weakened her resolve.

Mary gave him a small and shaky smile, clearing her throat and shaking her head, moving her hands quickly into her lap. Her heart was pounding loudly, her hands shaking, and she prayed that Bash could neither hear nor notice. "Right, well...let us discuss that another time, I suppose," she said politely.

"I think I should be getting to my friends. We have been here for a while, and I fear they suspect something astray between us."

"We were in an Out."

"Yes, but now we are not; and any longer out here with one another in the grip of private conversation may lead them to suspect - "

" - Something they must not ever, about us, you mean."

She didn't look up at him, though she could feel Bash's eyes on her. Mary snapped her mouth shut at his interruption. His words weren't hostile, nor were they bitter or angry. She knew she could nod, agree, reply to him in any form she wished, but despite his unaccusing tone, she felt herself unable to answer him.

"Then I suppose we should get you to my Father's chambers, should we not?" He didn't wait to hear her reply, and Mary felt the air shift as Bash's weight left the log and he stood, walking in front of her. She saw his hand stretched out to her, saw his torso bend, and looked up into his gaze to find him bowing, waiting for her.

"I will escort you. Put your hand in mine," he demanded, his gaze steady on hers. Mary let out a silent and shuddering breath, trying to calm herself; trying to remember that they were just friends, and of his words of chivalry.

In an attempt to regain her composure, Mary raised a brow. "Who died and made you Queen, Sebastian?" she said. "I don't think you'd look good in the dress I'm wearing today."

"I should hope not."

Mary gave a firmer smile, even though she felt anything but firm.

She stood as regally as her state would allow her, taking her time with things, trying to appear unaffected, and just as adept to transitioning into their unassuming friendship as he was. When she finally placed her hand in his and began walking, she pointedly rolled her eyes at his smirk, drawing out a low chuckle from him.

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_AEN: Please review! And remember to check out __**Welcome was the Daylight**__, now!_


	14. Chapter 14

§

As Mary walked beside Bash, she stared at her dress, her question gnawing at her.

"Mary? Tell me already."

"Your father..." she stammered, "about Kenna, I - can I leave her in his care?"

She looked up at him then, peeking up at him from her lashes. He was staring at her with a crease in his brow.

"Bash? Honestly."

He closed his eyes, and sighed. When they reached the steps that would take them to his father's chambers, he spoke.

"I can not tell you that the life she has chosen will be easy."

Mary placed her hand on the railing and sighed.

"He is a good man, Mary."

Mary said nothing, not convinced.

They walked up the steps and turned the corner in silence. Mary could see the King's chambers now, near the end of the hall, and she dreaded going to it. She wished she could tell her friend to stop her affair with the King of France. But she couldn't. Not now.

An exhausted sigh which passed through her companion's lips brought her out of her musings.

"I can't remember the last time I had an adventure. I don't count the situation with Tomas. Or fetching Sterling, either. Or even..." he trailed off, and Mary watched as he combed a hand through his hair.

"Did you often venture out before?" she asked him, curious by his sudden choice of topic.

"Something like that," Bash replied.

"And now you're constantly here? Did you get tired of running rampant and wild?"

"Like that would ever happen," he said with an exaggerated scoff. "There seems to be more excitement here in the days of late," he answered, causing Mary to halt suddenly as she stared at him. Bash slid his gaze to hers a moment, and outside his father's door they stood there, held in place by one another's stares.

"It can't be that exciting here," Mary said, softly.

"True, it isn't."

She frowned at him, and he chuckled.

"But ever since last season, I've not minded being here. These walls are no longer such a confine," Bash admitted. "I guess, that gives me more reason to stay. Perhaps that's a more subtle form of adventure."

"What is?"

He shrugged, then said, "These people. This place. Us. You."

Mary felt her lips part. Bash stared at her earnestly.

"Your Grace. Sebastian. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Father," Bash's gaze left hers hastily and he shifted. Mary blinked, the spell cast upon them both broken, and subtly cleared her throat and turned.

She bowed her head at the King. "King Henry."

"I was escorting Mary to your chambers. Your Lady requested Mary's presence."

"Ah. Is that so?"

Mary opened her mouth to reply, and when she did, the door opened.

"Mary! Henry?"

Mary turned and shot a glance at Kenna, whose eyes were alight with joy at the presence of her lover. Her gaze was locked on the man, as she stepped out the doorway and into the hall with them, practically right into his arms and into a chaste kiss. A kiss Mary found highly disturbing.

"Hello, Kenna," the King greeted.

"Where have you been? I haven't seen you all morning."

"Yes, well. I had some matters in the castle I had to attend to." The King gave Kenna a quick smile, but Mary narrowed her eyes at his words, sneaking a peek at Sebastian, whom met her gaze for a moment before looking away.

"I was actually coming to return to you, but it seems as if you are having a party now."

"It's nothing like that. Come join my ladies and I."

"I couldn't possibly. There are still things to be done, and this gives me plenty of reason to do them."

"Yes, Father. About that." Mary shifted her gaze from the couple and onto Sebastian.

"Yes?"

"Mary has brought something to my attention recently. It seems she and her ladies are unsatisfied living here," he said suddenly, and Mary blanched, her face flushing as she turned hastily to look at the King.

She watched the King look down at Kenna, before looking at her, and she shifted nervously. "Is that true, Mary?"

"What Sebastian meant, Your Grace," she began, rambling, "is that we feel much accommodated. Very well, in fact. As well as comfortable and welcome, here at Court." She took a steadying breath to rid her voice of its shakiness, "Lately, it seems that some of the ladies-in-waiting have felt a sense of homesickness." She chose her words carefully. Said them slowly. It was not that she feared disrespecting the King, for she was a queen and almost as equal to him in title - if not by gender orientation - but she was still unused to being in the position. "Today, Sebastian and I were discussing options of remedy for my ladies."

"I see. And what are these choices?" the King asked, a lilt of deflated amusement in his tone.

"The Highland Games," Bash answered for her. She scrutinized him. The tone with which he said the words was innocent yet boldly proud, and Mary knew that he was subtly trying to catch the interests of his father.

"The Highland Games? I have seen them once or twice before, during my visits to Scotland. They are very compelling."

"Yes, they are," Mary agreed.

They stood in silence a moment, until Kenna spoke.

"It would certainly be a good idea," she said. "The Highland Games are games of strength and grace. Perhaps even Your Grace could enter therein," she said, hands reaching down to clasp the King's.

Mary watched the king flash his mistress another smile. "You flatter me." He looked up, from Mary to Bash. "I take it you also want our Court to hold these Scottish festivities, Sebastian. At least, that is what that syrupy tone of yours suggests," the King said with an arched brow, and Bash smiled. Henry looked between them once more before shrugging.

"Fine," he said with an amused sigh. "Tomorrow I shall begin to have the Court prepare. Mary, Kenna, I leave you and the rest of the ladies in charge of this affair, mainly because it in your Country the Games are held. In a week's time, French Court will have its very first Highland Games."

Mary's body tingled with excitement; she watched Kenna squeal and hug her arms around the king's neck.

The king gently freed himself from her lady's grasp. "Now, if you children don't mind, I have matters to attend you," he said pointedly, and Mary bowed graciously at his departure. When she raised her head, Bash was staring at her, grinning.

"Well, that worked out, now didn't it?"

"You cheeky arse; I should hit you for that."

"Hit me," he echoed.

"Yes; in the arm."

"You mean you wish to futily attempt."

Mary couldn't hide her grin as she rolled her eyes at him. "Choose your words carefully next time!"

He arched a brow, "Your Grace - I hope you are not implying that I simply meant to ruffle your feathers."

"Indeed I am."

"Your Grace, I am hurt you would say so. I would never do such a thing to a lovely creature such as yourself."

Mary laughed then. "You're too cheeky."

"Bash," Kenna said slowly, and Mary jumped, having forgotten that Kenna was even there. "Why are you here? Were you escorting Mary?"

"Ah, yes. I didn't want to keep her too long; after all, the cooling weather would do nothing to cure Her Grace's sickness," Bash replied smoothly, smiling.

"Right."

Kenna shot Mary a glance. Mary smiled innocently.

"Sebastian, thank you for escorting Mary here. I think I will take her now," Kenna said, glancing away. Mary watched Bash bow his head.

"Thank you for broaching the subject with your father," Mary spoke hesitantly, tense from the way which Kenna stared at her.

"It was a pleasure; now if you'd excuse me." Bash's eyes flickered to hers briefly, and she mouthed silent words of thanks. She watched him walk away, and wondered where he was going to go; but she was snapped out of her musings when Kenna took her hand and dragged her to the chamber door.

"Kenna! Mary! We heard snippets of the conversation through the door," Aylee said eagerly. "Is it true?"

"Yes," Mary said, laughing, reaching for her friend's hands, "King Henry has decided to hold a Highland Games here at Court and as early as next week."

"Mary, that's wonderful!"

"Yes, well, nevermind all that!" Kenna said dismissively.

"Mary, what's going on between you and Bash?"

A jolt passed through her, ringing in her ears like the bells that warned a port of a ship ready to war. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and Mary forgot how to breathe as her throat when dry.

"...I can't say that I understand what you mean." Her voice was quiet, shaky, and she hoped her friends didn't take notice of the trembling hand that she brought to move the loose strands of hair away from her eyes.

"Mary, we saw you, in the Courtyard," Lola said slowly.

"And I saw you out in the hall, just now." Kenna added indignantly.

"Sebastian and I were _talking_, Kenna. I didn't know that meant anything out of the ordinary," Mary bristled.

"Then what about your behavior? Out in the Courtyard?"

Mary turned to Lola. "That was...we simply had a disagreement prior to meeting him there. I was still trying to retain my indignation about the whole situation," she said, in a tone she hoped was flippant.

"A disagreement about what?" Lola pressed, arms folded.

Mary paused, then said, "Francis." That wasn't entirely a lie. But still Lola's gaze was steady on hers, in a way that her guilt grew upon her at her secrets, and she lowered her gaze to the floor.

"Mary, Sebastian is dangerous to your reputation," Lola chastised. "Should something happen between you - "

"_Nothing_ has happened!" Mary cried, irate. "I can not fathom _why_ you would think so. I know this already, I know about the law of lands, kingdoms, and rulers. I am a _queen! You need not recite to me the laws on which I rule!"_

Her words stunned the other girls into silence, and when Mary had realized what all she had said, it stunned even herself. She was panting slightly, and she took a steadying breath, wishing to wipe the film of sweat from her brow.

"It was just a disagreement about Francis, and nothing more," she said softly; she had not meant to react the way she did. She didn't even know why she had, "and - -"

There was a rap on the door, and in the next minute, when it opened, Francis stood in the doorway. Mary blinked at him. He gave her a small smile.

"I was wondering if I may see my fiancé?" he asked quietly. Mary flickered her gaze to her ladies, at the strange expressions they wore, and suddenly didn't mind if he took her away from there.

They seemed to not mind either.

"She _is_ yours," Kenna finally said, after a moment, and Mary walked awkwardly away from them, and towards the door. Next to Francis. He placed his arm behind her, guiding her by the small of her back, and Mary turned back, for just a moment, to meet the steady gazes of Lola and Kenna, disapproval in their eyes.

Or was it hurt, or was it distrust?

Francis crossed the hall to stand near the windows, and Mary followed, sulkily.

Why had she snapped at them? They had done her no harm. They were simply looking out for her, doing what they no doubt should. Their words were harmless, concerned, and she had rebuked them. _Why? _

Mary shook her head clear and focused on Francis, who was gazing at her. She took in the face she had not seen in a while, from his disheveled blonde hair, to his striking blue eyes. The small stubble that often adorned his jaw was clean-shaven, and his skin looked soft. He saw something warring in his eyes as he spoke to her.

"It has been a while." His voice was soft. Hesitant.

"Yes," Mary said, just as softly, the memories of the hurt he'd caused her still fresh. Always fresh.

"I came to see how you've been fairing, I - -" Francis sighed, "- - know that you said you could not - -"

There was an obvious conflict inside him, scrunching up his face in twisted expressions, as he struggled with his words. Her heart softened towards him but only slightly, and she reached up, her fingers brushing the center of his knitting brows, and massaged the area softly.

"You mustn't allow conflicts to make you look so," she said, giving him a small smile. She heard his intake of breath, as well as felt her own when his hand slid against her own.

"As if it may be helped," he whispered, and Mary felt the rise of heat from her skin. He held her gaze, trapping her in his conflicting emotions. Piercing her with his sorrow.

"Mary, I'm sorry that I have lost your trust. That was never...that was never my intention."

Mary couldn't breathe, she was lost in so much blue. A blue gaze of sorrow, bright and fervent. A haze of cool fire, freezing her where ever she stood.

"What is it that I can do? Please tell me, Mary. For I will do it. I will make this up to you."

She willed herself so many times before to not think of the latter, told herself today that she would no longer, but now she was trapped, made helpless, the two gazes in her mind blending into one, and clouding it.

"Mary?"

Mary blinked, and took in a shuddering breath. She looked down at the ground, trying to recover from what had just happened to her.

"I don't know what you can do, Francis. I just don't know."

They stood in silence for a moment.

"At least speak to me," he sighed. "Don't turn away from me any longer."

Mary swallowed harshly.

"What is there to say?"

"Anything. Tell me anything, Mary," Francis urged of her. Mary worried her bottom lip in between her teeth.

"In a week's time, there are to be Highland Games held here. You father agreed to it." She looked up at him and took in the arch of his brows.

"Highland Games at Court? Have you been lonely?"

She winced at his question, the words painful when he uttered them to her, and she saw him give her a rueful smile.

"I see." Then, "I'm sorry."

They stood in silence for another moment.

"T-tomorrow we begin preparation. My ladies and I have been put in charge of overseeing production."

"Of course. It is your culture." Francis grabbed her other hand.

"I do not know much about Scotland's culture. I know some from what I've learned, but it is so little. Let me help you tomorrow. I wish to assist in the preparations for the games."

Mary's lips parted in surprise. "Francis, you couldn't possibly. Dauphins do not - - "

"_I_ do. I _want_ to," Francis said sternly.

"Why?" Francis looked at her steadily, and Mary's eyes widened at her words.

Why. It was a question she had asked herself for weeks. A question that she had asked herself ever since she returned there. Why her; Why him. Why them; _Why this_. It was the same question that she had asked Sebastian that night, in the Courtyard, when he had followed after her.

It was the only question she'd not ever asked of Francis, until now.

Her heart was pounding loudly in her chest. _Did he hear it? Did he care? _Her hands were trembling; she knew he felt that, knew that - when Francis pressed his fingers lightly against her wrist - he could feel the harsh beats of her heart, too.

"Because Scotland is a part of you," he told her gently, "and I want to know more about you, Mary. If possible, I want to know everything."

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AEN: Aaaand we transition into the Highland Games arc! And out of Mary's head! What is she to do though with Francis' admission? And what does it mean? How did it happen? And what about she and Bash? What does this mean for them? Ooh, the story is really going to pick up now! I hope you're all still reading (;. **Remember to review!**


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